*> 


MORE  JONATHAN   PAPERS. 
THE  JONATHAN   PAPERS. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


More  Jonathan  Papers 


More  Jonathan  Papers 

By 

Elisabeth  Woodbridge 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
pretftf  Camfcrit>0e 


COPYRIGHT,    1915,   BY  ELISABETH   WOODBRIDGE   MORRIS 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  November  iqi$ 


TO 
JONATHAN 


Contents 

I.  THE  SEARCHINGS  OF  JONATHAN  ...  1 

II.  SAP-TIME 25 

III.  EVENINGS  ON  THE  FARM 50 

IV.  AFTER  FROST 83 

V.  THE  JOYS  OF  GARDEN  STEWARDSHIP  .  97 

VI.  TROUT  AND  ARBUTUS 115 

VII.  WITHOUT  THE  TIME  OF  DAY      .     .     .138 

VIII.  THE  WAYS  OF  GRISELDA  .....  162 

IX.  A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE   ,  .180 


More  Jonathan  Papers 


The  Searchings  of  Jonathan 

"WHAT  I  find  it  hard  to  understand  is,  why  a 
person  who  can  see  a  spray  of  fringed  gentian 
in  the  middle  of  a  meadow  can't  see  a  book  on 
the  sitting-room  table." 

"The  reason  why  I  can  see  the  gentian," 
said  Jonathan,  "is  because  the  gentian  is 
there." 

"So  is  the  book,"  I  responded. 

"Which  table?  "he  asked. 

"The  one  with  the  lamp  on  it.  It's  a  red 
book,  about  so  big." 

"It  isn't  there;  but,  just  to  satisfy  you, 
I '11  look  again." 

He  returned  in  a  moment  with  an  argu 
mentative  expression  of  countenance.  "It 
is  n't  there,"  he  said  firmly.  "Will  anything 
else  do  instead?" 


2  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"No,  I  wanted  you  to  read  that  special 
thing.  Oh,  dear !  And  I  have  all  these  things 
in  my  lap!  And  I  know  it  is  there." 

"And  I  know  it  is  n't."  He  stretched  him 
self  out  in  the  hammock  and  watched  me  as 
I  rather  ostentatiously  laid  down  thimble, 
scissors,  needle,  cotton,  and  material  and  set 
out  for  the  sitting-room  table.  There  were  a 
number  of  books  on  it,  to  be  sure.  I  glanced 
rapidly  through  the  piles,  fingered  the  lower 
books,  pushed  aside  a  magazine,  and  pulled 
out  from  beneath  it  the  book  I  wanted.  I 
returned  to  the  hammock  and  handed  it  over. 
Then,  after  possessing  myself,  again  rather 
ostentatiously,  of  material,  cotton,  needle, 
scissors,  and  thimble,  I  sat  down. 

"It's  the  second  essay  I  specially  thought 
we'd  like,"  I  said. 

"Just  for  curiosity,"  said  Jonathan,  with 
an  impersonal  air,  "where  did  you  find  it?" 

"Find  what?"  I  asked  innocently. 

"The  book." 

"Oh!  On  the  table." 

"Which  table?" 

"The  one  with  the  lamp  on  it." 

"I  should  like  to  know  where." 


THE  SEARCHINGS  OF  JONATHAN   3 

"Why  —  just  there  —  on  the  table.  There 
was  an  'Atlantic'  on  top  of  it,  to  be  sure." 

"I  saw  the  *  Atlantic.'  Blest  if  it  looked  as 
though  it  had  anything  under  it!  Besides, 
I  was  looking  for  it  on  top  of  things.  You 
said  you  laid  it  down  there  just  before  lunch 
eon,  and  I  did  n't  think  it  could  have  crawled 
in  under  so  quick." 

"When  you're  looking  for  a  thing,"  I  said, 
"you  must  n't  think,  you  must  look.  Now 
go  ahead  and  read." 

If  this  were  a  single  instance,  or  even  if  it 
were  one  of  many  illustrating  a  common 
human  frailty,  it  would  hardly  be  worth  set 
ting  down.  But  the  frailty  under  considera 
tion  has  come  to  seem  to  me  rather  particu 
larly  masculine.  Are  not  all  the  Jonathans 
in  the  world  continually  being  sent  to  some 
sitting-room  table  for  something,  and  coming 
back  to  assert,  with  more  or  less  pleasantness, 
according  to  their  temperament,  that  it  is  not 
there?  The  incident,  then,  is  not  isolated;  it 
is  typical  of  a  vast  group.  For  Jonathan,  read 
Everyman;  for  the  red  book,  read  any  par 
ticular  thing  that  you  want  Him  to  bring; 
for  the  sitting-room  table,  read  the  place 


4  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

where  you  know  it  is  and  Everyman  says  it 
isn't.  * 

This,  at  least,  is  my  thesis.  It  is  not,  how 
ever,  unchallenged.  Jonathan  has  challenged 
it  when,  from  time  to  time,  as  occasion  of 
fered,  I  have  lightly  sketched  it  out  for  him. 
Sometimes  he  argues  that  my  instances  are 
really  isolated  cases  and  that  their  evidence 
is  not  cumulative,  at  others  he  takes  refuge 
in  a  tu  quoque  —  in  itself  a  confession  of  weak 
ness —  and  alludes  darkly  to  "top  shelves" 
and  "bottom  drawers."  But  let  us  have  no 
mysteries.  These  phrases,  considered  as  argu 
ments,  have  their  origin  in  certain  incidents 
which,  that  all  the  evidence  may  be  in,  I  will 
here  set  down. 

Once  upon  a  time  I  asked  Jonathan  to  get 
me  something  from  the  top  shelf  in  the  closet. 
He  went,  and  failed  to  find  it.  Then  I  went, 
and  took  it  down.  Jonathan,  watching  over 
my  shoulder,  said,  "But  that  was  n't  the  top 
shelf,  I  suppose  you  will  admit." 

Sure  enough!  There  was  a  shelf  above. 
"Oh,  yes;  but  I  don't  count  that  shelf.  We 
never  use  it,  because  nobody  can  reach 
it." 


THE  SEARCHINGS  OF  JONATHAN   5 

"How  do  you  expect  me  to  know  which 
shelves  you  count  and  which  you  don't?" 

"Of  course,  anatomically  —  structurally — 
it  is  one,  but  functionally  it  isn't  there  at  all." 

"I  see,"  said  Jonathan,  so  contentedly  that 
I  knew  he  was  filing  this  affair  away  for  future 
use. 

On  another  occasion  I  asked  him  to  get 
something  for  me  from  the  top  drawer  of  the 
old  "high-boy"  in  the  dining-room.  He  was 
gone  a  long  while,  and  at  last,  growing  im 
patient,  I  followed.  I  found  him  standing  on 
an  old  wooden-seated  chair,  screw-driver  in 
hand.  A  drawer  on  a  level  with  his  head  was 
open,  and  he  had  hanging  over  his  arm 
a  gaudy  collection  of  ancient  table-covers 
and  embroidered  scarfs,  mostly  in  shades  of 
magenta. 

"She  stuck,  but  I've  got  her  open  now. 
I  don't  see  any  pillow-cases,  though.  It's  all 
full  of  these  things."  He  pumped  his  laden 
arm  up  and  down,  and  the  table-covers 
wagged  gayly. 

I  sank  into  the  chair  and  laughed.  "Oh! 
Have  you  been  prying  at  that  all  this  time? 
Of  course  there's  nothing  in  that  drawer." 


6  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"There's  where  you're  wrong.  There's  a 
great  deal  in  it;  I  have  n't  taken  out  half.  If 
you  want  to  see  — " 

"I  don't  want  to  see!  There's  nothing  I 
want  less !  What  I  mean  is  —  I  never  put 
anything  there." 

"It's  the  top  drawer."  He  was  beginning 
to  lay  back  the  table-covers. 

"But  I  can't  reach  it.  And  it's  been  stuck 
for  ever  so  long." 

"You  said  the  top  drawer." 

:<Yes,  I  suppose  I  did.  Of  course  what  I 
meant  was  the  top  one  of  the  ones  I  use." 

"I  see,  my  dear.  When  you  say  top  shelf 
you  don't  mean  top  shelf,  and  when  you  say 
top  drawer  you  don't  mean  top  drawer;  in 
fact,  when  you  say  top  you  don't  mean  top 
at  all  —  you  mean  the  height  of  your  head. 
Everything  above  that  does  n't  count." 

Jonathan  was  so  pleased  with  this  formula 
tion  of  my  attitude  that  he  was  not  in  the 
least  irritated  to  have  put  out  unnecessary 
work.  And  his  satisfaction  was  deepened  by 
one  more  incident.  I  had  sent  him  to  the 
bottom  drawer  of  my  bureau  to  get  a  shawl. 
He  returned  without  it,  and  I  was  puzzled. 


THE  SEARCHINGS  OF  JONATHAN    7 

"Now,  Jonathan,  it's  there,  and  it's  the  top 
thing." 

"The  real  top,"  murmured  Jonathan,  "or 
just  what  you  call  top?" 

"It's  right  in  front,"  I  went  on;  "and  I 
don't  see  how  even  a  man  could  fail  to  find  it." 

He  proceeded  to  enumerate  the  contents 
of  the  drawer  in  such  strange  fashion  that  I 
began  to  wonder  where  he  had  been. 

"I  said  my  bureau." 

"I  went  to  your  bureau." 

"The  bottom  drawer." 

"The  bottom  drawer.  There  was  nothing 
but  a  lot  of  little  boxes  and  - 

"Oh,  /  know  what  you  did!  You  went  to 
the  secret  drawer." 

"Is  n't  that  the  bottom  one?" 

"Why,  yes,  in  a  way  —  of  course  it  is;  but 
it  does  n't  exactly  count  —  it 's  not  one  of  the 
regular  drawers  —  it  has  n't  any  knobs,  or 
anything  — " 

"But  it's  a  perfectly  good  drawer." 

''Yes.  But  nobody  is  supposed  to  know 
it's  there;  it  looks  like  a  molding  — " 

"But  I  know  it's  there." 

"Yes,  of  course." 


8  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"And  you  know  I  know  it's  there." 

"Yes,  yes;  but  I  just  don't  think  about 
that  one  in  counting  up.  I  see  what  you  mean, 
of  course." 

"  And  I  see  what  you  mean.  You  mean  that 
your  shawl  is  in  the  bottom  one  of  the  regular 
drawers  —  with  knobs  —  that  can  be  alluded 
to  in  general  conversation.  Now  I  think  I  can 
find  it." 

He  did.  And  in  addition  he  amused  himself 
by  working  out  phrases  about  "when  is  a 
bottom  drawer  not  a  bottom  drawer?"  and 
"when  is  a  top  shelf  not  a  top  shelf?" 

It  is  to  these  incidents  —  which  I  regard  as 
isolated  and  negligible,  and  he  regards  as 
typical  and  significant  —  that  he  alludes  on 
the  occasions  when  he  is  unable  to  find  a  red 
book  on  the  sitting-room  table.  In  vain  do  I 
point  out  that  when  language  is  variable  and 
fluid  it  is  alive,  and  that  there  may  be  two 
opinions  about  the  structural  top  and  the 
functional  top,  whereas  there  can  be  but  one 
as  to  the  book  being  or  not  being  on  the  table. 
He  maintains  a  quiet  cheerfulness,  as  of  one 
who  is  conscious  of  being,  if  not  invulnerable, 
at  least  well  armed. 


THE   SEARCHINGS  OF  JONATHAN        9 

For  a  time  he  even  tried  to  make  believe 
that  he  was  invulnerable  as  well  —  to  set  up 
the  thesis  that  if  the  book  was  really  on  the 
table  he  could  find  it.  But  in  this  he  suffered 
so  many  reverses  that  only  strong  natural 
pertinacity  kept  him  from  capitulation. 

Is  it  necessary  to  recount  instances?  Every 
family  can  furnish  them.  As  I  allow  myself  to 
float  off  into  a  reminiscent  dream  I  find  my 
mind  possessed  by  a  continuous  series  of  dis 
solving  views  in  which  Jonathan  is  always 
coming  to  me  saying,  "It  is  n't  there,"  and  I 
am  always  saying,  "Please  look  again." 

Though  everything  in  the  house  seems  to 
be  in  a  conspiracy  against  him,  it  is  perhaps 
with  the  fishing-tackle  that  he  has  most  con 
stant  difficulties. 

"My  dear,  have  you  any  idea  where  my 
rod  is?  No,  don't  get  up  —  I'll  look  if  you'll 
just  tell  me  where  — " 

"Probably  in  the  corner  behind  the  chest 
in  the  orchard  room." 

"I've  looked  there." 

"Well,  then,  did  you  take  it  in  from  the 
wagon  last  night?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  doing  it." 


10  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"What  about  the  little  attic?  You  might 
have  put  it  up  there  to  dry  out." 

"No.  I  took  my  wading  boots  up,  but  that 
was  all." 

"The  dining-room?  You  came  in  that 
way." 

He  goes  and  returns.  "Not  there."  I  re 
flect  deeply. 

"Jonathan,  are  you  sure  it's  not  in  that 
corner  of  the  orchard  room?" 

"Yes,  I'm  sure;  but  I'll  look  again."  He 
disappears,  but  in  a  moment  I  hear  his  voice 
calling,  "No!  Yours  is  here,  but  not  mine." 

I  perceive  that  it  is  a  case  for  me,  and  I  get 
up.  "You  go  and  harness.  I '11  find  it,"  I  call. 

There  was  a  time  when,  under  such  condi 
tions,  I  should  have  begun  by  hunting  in  all 
the  unlikely  places  I  could  think  of.  Now  I 
know  better.  I  go  straight  to  the  corner  of  the 
orchard  room.  Then  I  call  to  Jonathan,  just 
to  relieve  his  mind. 

"All  right!  I've  found  it." 

"Where?" 

"Here,  in  the  orchard  room." 

"Where  in  the  orchard  room?" 

"In  the  corner." 


THE   SEARCHINGS  OF  JONATHAN      11 

"What  corner?" 

"The  usual  corner  —  back  of  the  chest." 

"The  devil!"  Then  he  comes  back  to  put 
his  head  in  at  the  door.  "What  are  you 
laughing  at?  " 

"  Nothing.  What  are  you  talking  about  the 
devil  for?  Anyway,  it  is  n't  the  devil;  it's  the 
brownie." 

For  there  seems  no  doubt  that  the  things 
he  hunts  for  are  possessed  of  supernatural 
powers;  and  the  theory  of  a  brownie  in  the 
house,  with  a  special  grudge  against  Jonathan, 
would  perhaps  best  account  for  the  way  in 
which  they  elude  his  search  but  leap  into  sight 
at  my  approach.  There  is,  to  be  sure,  one 
other  explanation,  but  it  is  one  that  does  not 
suggest  itself  to  him,  or  appeal  to  him  when 
suggested  by  me,  so  there  is  no  need  to  dwell 
upon  it. 

If  it  is  n't  the  rod,  it  is  the  landing-net, 
which  has  hung  itself  on  a  nail  a  little  to  the 
left  or  right  of  the  one  he  had  expected  to  see 
it  on;  or  his  reel,  which  has  crept  into  a  corner 
of  the  tackle  drawer  and  held  a  ball  of  string 
in  front  of  itself  to  distract  his  vision;  or  a 
bunch  of  snell  hooks,  which,  aware  of  its  pro- 


12  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

tective  coloring,  has  snuggled  up  against  the 
shady  side  of  the  drawer  and  tucked  its  pink- 
papered  head  underneath  a  gay  pickerel-spoon. 

Fishing-tackle  is,  clearly,  "possessed,"  but 
in  other  fields  Jonathan  is  not  free  from 
trouble.  Finding  anything  on  a  bureau 
seems  to  offer  peculiar  obstacles.  It  is  per 
haps  a  big,  black-headed  pin  that  I  want. 
"  On  the  pincushion,  Jonathan." 

He  goes,  and  returns  with  two  sizes  of 
safety-pins  and  one  long  hat-pin. 

"No,  dear,  those  won't  do.  A  small,  black- 
headed  one  —  at  least  small  compared  with  a 
hat-pin,  large  compared  with  an  ordinary  pin." 

"Common  or  house  pin?"  he  murmurs, 
quoting  a  friend's  phrase. 

"Do  look  again!  I  hate  to  drop  this  to  go 
myself." 

"When  a  man  does  a  job,  he  gets  his  tools 
together  first." 

"Yes;  but  they  say  women  should  n't  copy 
men,  they  should  develop  along  their  own 
lines.  Please  go." 

He  goes,  and  comes  back.  "You  don't 
want  fancy  gold  pins,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  no!  Here,  you  hold  this,  and  I'll  go." 


THE   SEARCHINGS  OF  JONATHAN      13 

I  dash  to  the  bureau.  Sure  enough,  he  is  right 
about  the  cushion.  I  glance  hastily  about. 
There,  in  a  little  saucer,  are  a  half-dozen  of 
the  sort  I  want.  I  snatch  some  and  run  back. 

"Well,  it  was  n't  in  the  cushion,  I  bet." 

"No,"  I  admit;  "it  was  in  a  saucer  just  be 
hind  the  cushion." 

"You  said  cushion." 

"I  know.   It 'sail  right." 

"Now,  if  you  had  said  simply  'bureau/  I'd 
have  looked  in  other  places  on  it." 

:<Yes,  you'd  have  looked  in  other  places!" 
I  could  not  forbear  responding.  There  is,  I 
grant,  another  side  to  this  question.  One 
evening  when  I  went  upstairs  I  found  a  par 
tial  presentation  of  it,  in  the  form  of  a  little 
newspaper  clipping,  pinned  on  my  cushion. 
It  read  as  follows :  — 

"  My  dear,"  said  she,  "  please  run  and 

bring  me  the  needle  from  the  haystack." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  which  haystack." 

"  Look  in  all   the   haystacks  —  you 

can't  miss  it;  there  's  only  one  needle." 

Jonathan  was  in  the  cellar  at  the  moment. 
When  he  came  up,  he  said,  "Did  I  hear  any 
one  laughing?" 


14  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"I  don't  know.  Did  you?" 
"I  thought  maybe  it  was  you." 
"It  might  have  been.  Something  amused 
me  —  I  forget  what." 

I  accused  Jonathan  of  having  written  it 
himself,  but  he  denied  it.  Some  other  Jona 
than,  then;  for,  as  I  said,  this  is  not  a  personal 
matter,  it  is  a  world  matter.  Let  us  grant, 
then,  a  certain  allowance  for  those  who  hunt 
in  woman-made  haystacks.  But  what  about 
pockets?  Is  not  a  man  lord  over  his  own 
pockets?  And  are  they  not  nevertheless  as 
so  many  haystacks  piled  high  for  his  confu 
sion?  Certain  it  is  that  Jonathan  has  nearly 
as  much  trouble  with  his  pockets  as  he  does 
with  the  corners  and  cupboards  and  shelves 
and  drawers  of  his  house.  It  usually  happens 
over  our  late  supper,  after  his  day  in  town. 
He  sets  down  his  teacup,  struck  with  a  sudden 
memory.  He  feels  in  his  vest  pockets  —  first 
the  right,  then  the  left.  He  proceeds  to  search 
himself,  murmuring,  "I  thought  something 
came  to-day  that  I  wanted  to  show  you  — 
oh,  here!  no,  that  is  n't  it.  I  thought  I  put  it 
—  no,  those  are  to  be  —  what's  this?  No, 
that's  a  memorandum.  Now,  where  in — " 


THE   SEARCHINGS  OF  JONATHAN      15 

Pie  runs  through  the  papers  in  his  pockets 
twice  over,  and  in  the  second  round  I  watch 
him  narrowly,  and  perhaps  see  a  corner  of  an 
envelope  that  does  not  look  like  office  work. 
" There,  Jonathan!  What's  that?  No,  not 
that  — that!" 

He  pulls  it  out  with  an  air  of  immense 
relief.  "There!  I  knew  I  had  something. 
That 's  it." 

When  we  travel,  the  same  thing  happens 
with  the  tickets,  especially  if  they  chance  to 
be  costly  and  complicated  ones,  with  all  the 
shifts  and  changes  of  our  journey  printed 
thick  upon  their  faces.  The  conductor  ap 
pears  at  the  other  end  of  the  car.  Jonathan 
begins  vaguely  to  fumble  without  lowering 
his  paper.  Pocket  after  pocket  is  browsed 
through  in  this  way.  Then  the  paper  slides  to 
his  knee  and  he  begins  a  more  thorough  in 
vestigation,  with  all  the  characteristic  clap 
ping  and  diving  motions  that  seem  to  be 
necessary.  Some  pockets  must  always  be 
clapped  and  others  dived  into  to  discover  their 
contents. 

No  tickets.  The  conductor  is  halfway  up 
the  car.  Jonathan's  face  begins  to  grow  seri- 


16  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

ous.  He  rises  and  looks  on  the  seat  and  under 
it.  He  sits  down  and  takes  out  packet  after 
packet  of  papers  and  goes  over  them  with 
scrupulous  care.  At  this  point  I  used  to  be 
come  really  anxious  —  to  make  hasty  calcu 
lations  as  to  our  financial  resources,  immedi 
ate  and  ultimate  —  to  wonder  it  conductors 
ever  really  put  nice  people  like  us  off  trains. 
But  that  was  long  ago.  I  know  now  that 
Jonathan  has  never  lost  a  ticket  in  his  life. 
So  I  glance  through  the  paper  that  he  has 
dropped  or  watch  the  landscape  until  he 
reaches  a  certain  stage  of  calm  and  definite 
pessimism,  when  he  says,  "I  must  have  pulled 
them  out  when  I  took  out  those  postcards  in 
the  other  car.  Yes,  that's  just  what  has  hap 
pened."  Then,  the  conductor  being  only  a 
few  seats  away,  I  beg  Jonathan  to  look  once 
more  in  his  vest  pocket,  where  he  always  puts 
them.  To  oblige  me  he  looks,  though  with 
out  faith,  and  lo !  this  time  the  tickets  fairly 
fling  themselves  upon  him,  with  smiles  almost 
curling  up  their  corners.  Does  the  brownie 
travel  with  us,  then? 

I  begin  to  suspect  that  some  of  the  good 
men  who  have  been  blamed  for  forgetting  to 


THE   SEAKCHINGS  OF  JONATHAN      17 

mail  letters  in  their  pockets  have  been,  not 
indeed  blameless,  but  at  least  misunderstood. 
Probably  they  do  not  forget.  Probably  they 
hunt  for  the  letters  and  cannot  find  them,  and 
conclude  that  they  have  already  mailed  them. 

In  the  matter  of  the  home  haystacks  Jona 
than's  confidence  in  himself  has  at  last  been 
shaken.  For  a  long  time,  when  he  returned 
to  me  after  some  futile  search,  he  used  to  say, 
"Of  course  you  can  look  for  it  if  you  like,  but 
it  is  not  there."  But  man  is  a  reasoning,  if  not 
altogether  a  reasonable,  being,  and  with  a  suffi 
cient  accumulation  of  evidence,  especially 
when  there  is  some  one  constantly  at  hand  to 
interpret  its  teachings,  almost  any  set  of  opin 
ions,  however  fixed,  may  be  shaken.  So  here. 

Once  when  we  shut  up  the  farm  for  the 
winter  I  left  my  fountain  pen  behind.  This 
was  little  short  of  a  tragedy,  but  I  comforted 
myself  with  the  knowledge  that  Jonathan 
was  going  back  that  week-end  for  a  day's 
hunt. 

"Be  sure  to  get  the  pen  first  of  all,"  I  said, 
"and  put  it  in  your  pocket." 

"Where  is  it?  "he  asked. 

"In  the  little  medicine  cupboard  over  the 


18  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

fireplace  in  the  orchard  room,  standing  up  at 
the  side  of  the  first  shelf." 

"Why  not  on  your  desk?"  he  asked. 

"Because  I  was  writing  tags  in  there,  and 
set  it  up  so  it  would  be  out  of  the  way." 

"And  it  was  out  of  the  way.  All  right.  I'll 
collect  it." 

He  went,  and  on  his  return  I  met  him  with 
eager  hand  —  "My  pen!" 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  began. 

"You  did  n't  forget!"  I  exclaimed. 

"No.  But  it  was  n't  there." 

"But  — did  you  look?" 

"Yes,  I  looked." 

"Thoroughly?" 

"Yes.  I  lit  three  matches." 

"Matches!  Then  you  didn't  get  it  when 
you  first  got  there!" 

"Why  —  no  —  I  had  the  dog  to  attend  to 
—  and  —  but  I  had  plenty  of  time  when  I 
got  back,  and  it  was  n't  there." 

"Well-  Dear  me!  Did  you  look  any 
where  else?  I  suppose  I  may  be  mistaken. 
Perhaps  I  did  take  it  back  to  the  desk." 

"  That 's  just  what  I  thought  myself,"  said 
Jonathan.  "  So  I  went  there,  and  looked,  and 


THE   SEARCHINGS  OF  JONATHAN      19 

then  I  looked  on  all  the  mantelpieces  and 
your  bureau.  You  must  have  put  it  in  your 
bag  the  last  minute  —  bet  it's  there  now!" 

"Bet  it  is  n't." 

It  was  n't.  For  two  weeks  more  I  was 
driven  to  using  other  pens  —  strange  and  dis 
tracting  to  the  fingers  and  the  eyes  and  the 
mind.  Then  Jonathan  was  to  go  up  again. 

"Please  look  once  more,"  I  begged,  "and 
don't  expect  not  to  see  it.  I  can  fairly  see  it 
myself,  this  minute,  standing  up  there  on  the 
right-hand  side,  just  behind  the  machine  oil 


can.'! 


"  Oh,  I  '11  look,"  he  promised.  "  If  it 's  there, 
I '11  find  it." 

He  returned  penless.  I  considered  buying 
another.  But  we  were  planning  to  go  up  to 
gether  the  last  week  of  the  hunting  season, 
and  I  thought  I  would  wait  on  the  chance. 

We  got  off  at  the  little  station  and  hunted 
our  way  up,  making  great  sweeps  and  jogs,  as 
hunters  must,  to  take  in  certain  spots  we 
thought  promising  —  certain  ravines  and 
swamp  edges  where  we  are  always  sure  of 
hearing  the  thunderous  whir  of  partridge 
wings,  or  the  soft,  shrill  whistle  of  woodcock. 


20  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

At  noon  we  broiled  chops  and  rested  in  the 
lee  of  the  wood  edge,  where,  even  in  the  late 
fall,  one  can  usually  find  spots  that  are  warm 
and  still.  It  was  dusk  by  the  time  we  came 
over  the  crest  of  the  farm  ledges  and  saw  the 
huddle  of  the  home  buildings  below  us,  and 
quite  dark  when  we  reached  the  house.  Fires 
had  been  made  and  coals  smouldered  on  the 
hearth  in  the  sitting-room. 

"You  light  the  lamp,"  I  said,  "and  I'll 
just  take  a  match  and  go  through  to  see  if 
that  pen  should  happen  to  be  there." 

"No  use  doing  anything  to-night,"  said 
Jonathan.  "To-morrow  morning  you  can 
have  a  thorough  hunt." 

But  I  took  my  match,  felt  my  way  into  the 
next  room,  past  the  fireplace,  up  to  the  cup 
board,  then  struck  my  match.  In  its  first 
flare-up  I  glanced  in.  Then  I  chuckled. 

Jonathan  had  gone  out  to  the  dining-room, 
but  he  has  perfectly  good  ears. 

"NO!"  he  roared,  and  his  tone  of  dismay, 
incredulity,  rage,  sent  me  off  into  gales  of 
unscrupulous  laughter.  He  was  striding  in, 
candle  in  hand,  shouting,  "It  was  not  there!" 

"Look  yourself,"  I  managed  to  gasp. 


THE  SEARCHINGS  OF  JONATHAN      21 

This  time,  somehow,  he  could  see  it. 

"You  planted  it!  You  brought  it  up  and 
planted  it!" 

"I  never!  Oh,  dear  me!  It  pays  for  going 
without  it  for  weeks!" 

"Nothing  will  ever  make  me  believe  that 
that  pen  was  standing  there  when  I  looked 
for  it ! "  said  Jonathan,  with  vehement  finality. 

"All  right,"  I  sighed  happily.  "You  don't 
have  to  believe  it." 

But  in  his  heart  perhaps  he  does  believe  it. 
At  any  rate,  since  that  time  he  has  adopted  a 
new  formula:  "My  dear,  it  may  be  there,  of 
course,  but  I  don't  see  it."  And  this  position 
I  regard  as  unassailable. 

One  triumph  he  has  had.  I  wanted  some 
thing  that  was  stored  away  in  the  shut-up 
town  house. 

"Do  you  suppose  you  could  find  it?  "  I  said, 
as  gently  as  possible. 

"I  can  try,"  he  said. 

"I  think  it  is  in  a  box  about  this  shape  — 
see?  —  a  gray  box,  in  the  attic  closet,  the 
farthest-in  corner." 

"Are  you  sure  it's  in  the  house?  If  it's  in 
the  house,  I  think  I  can  find  it." 


22  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  of  that." 

When  he  returned  that  night,  his  face  wore 
a  look  of  satisfaction  very  imperfectly  con 
cealed  beneath  a  mask  of  nonchalance. 

"Good  for  you!  Was  it  where  I  said?" 

"No." 

"Was  it  in  a  different  corner?" 

"No." 

"Where  was  it?" 

"It  was  n't  in  a  corner  at  all.  It  was  n't  in 
that  closet." 

"It  was  n't!  Where,  then?" 

"  Downstairs  in  the  hall  closet."  He  paused, 
then  could  not  forbear  adding,  "And  it  was  n't 
in  a  gray  box;  it  was  in  a  big  hat-box  with 
violets  all  over  it." 

"Why,  Jonathan!  Are  n't  you  grand!  How 
did  you  ever  find  it?  I  could  n't  have  done 
better  myself." 

Under  such  praise  he  expanded.  "The 
fact  is,"  he  said  confidentially,  "I  had  given 
it  up.  And  then  suddenly  I  changed  my 
mind.  I  said  to  myself,  'Jonathan,  don't 
be  a  man!  Think  what  she'd  do  if  she 
were  here  now.'  And  then  I  got  busy  and 
found  it." 


THE    SEARCHINGS  OF  JONATHAN      23 

"Jonathan!"  I  could  almost  have  wept  if 
I  had  not  been  laughing. 

"Well,"  he  said,  proud,  yet  rather  sheepish, 
"what  is  there  so  funny  about  that?  I  gave 
up  half  a  day  to  it." 

"Funny!  It  isn't  funny  —  exactly.  You 
don't  mind  my  laughing  a  little?  Why,  you  Ve 
lived  down  the  fountain  pen  —  we  '11  forget 
the  pen — " 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't  forget  the  pen  either," 
he  said,  with  a  certain  pleasant  grimness. 

"Well,  perhaps  not  —  of  course  it  would 
be  a  pity  to  forget  that.  Suppose  I  say,  then, 
that  we'll  always  regard  the  pen  in  the  light 
of  the  violet  hat-box?" 

"I  think  that  might  do."  Then  he  had  an 
alarming  afterthought.  "But,  see  here — you 
won't  expect  me  to  do  things  like  that  often?  " 

"Dear  me,  no!  People  can't  live  always  on 
their  highest  levels.  Perhaps  you'll  never 
do  it  again."  Jonathan  looked  distinctly  re 
lieved.  "  I  '11  accept  it  as  a  unique  effort  —  like 
Dante's  angel  and  Raphael's  sonnet." 

"Jonathan,"  I  said  that  evening,  "what 
do  you  know  about  St.  Anthony  of  Padua?  " 

"Not  much." 


24  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Well,  you  ought  to.  He  helped  you  to-day. 
He 's  the  saint  who  helps  people  to  find  lost 
articles.  Every  man  ought  to  take  him  as 
a  patron  saint." 

"And  do  you  know  which  saint  it  is  who 
helps  people  to  find  lost  virtues  —  like  hu 
mility,  for  instance?" 

"No.  I  don't,  really." 

"I  did  n't  suppose  you  did,"  said  Jonathan. 


II 

Sap-Time 

IT  was  a  little  tree-toad  that  began  it.  In  a 
careless  moment  he  had  come  down  to  the 
bench  that  connects  the  big  maple  tree  with 
the  old  locust  stump,  and  when  I  went  out  at 
dusk  to  wait  for  Jonathan,  there  he  sat,  in 
plain  sight.  A  few  experimental  pokes  sent 
him  back  to  the  tree,  and  I  studied  him  there, 
marveling  at  the  way  he  assimilated  with  its 
bark.  As  Jonathan  came  across  the  grass  I 
called  softly,  and  pointed  to  the  tree. 

"Well?  "he  said. 

"Don't  you  see?" 

"No.  What?" 

"Look  —  I  thought  you  had  eyes!" 

"Oh,  what  a  little  beauty!" 

"And  is  n't  his  back  just  like  bark  and 
lichens !  And  what  are  those  things  in  the  tree 
beside  him?" 

"Plugs,  I  suppose." 

"Plugs?" 


26  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Yes.  After  tapping.  Uncle  Ben  used  to 
tap  these  trees,  I  believe." 

"You  mean  for  sap?  Maple  syrup?" 

"Yes." 

"Jonathan!  I  didn't  know  these  were 
sugar  maples." 

"Oh,  yes.  These  on  the  road." 

"The  whole  row?  Why,  there  are  ten  or 
fifteen  of  them!  And  you  never  told  me!" 

"I  thought  you  knew." 

"  Knew !  I  don't  know  anything  —  I  should 
think  you  'd  know  that,  by  this  time.  Do  you 
suppose,  if  I  had  known,  I  should  have  let  all 
these  years  go  by  —  oh,  dear  —  think  of  all 
the  fun  we've  missed!  And  syrup!" 

"You'd  have  to  come  up  in  February." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  come  in  February.  Who's 
afraid  of  February?" 

"All  right.   Try  it  next  year." 

I  did.  But  not  in  February.  Things  hap 
pened,  as  things  do,  and  it  was  early  April  be 
fore  I  got  to  the  farm.  But  it  had  been  a 
wintry  March,  and  the  farmers  told  me  that 
the  sap  had  not  been  running  except  for  a  few 
days  in  a  February  thaw.  Anyway,  it  was 
worth  trying. 


SAP-TIME  27 

Jonathan  could  not  come  with  me.  He  was 
to  join  me  later.  But  Hiram  found  a  bundle 
of  elder  spouts  in  the  attic,  and  with  these 
and  an  auger  we  went  out  along  the  snowy, 
muddy  road.  The  hole  was  bored  —  a  pair 
of  them  —  in  the  first  tree,  and  the  spouts 
driven  in.  I  knelt,  watching  —  in  fact,  peer 
ing  up  the  spout-hole  to  see  what  might  hap 
pen.  Suddenly  a  drop,  dim  with  sawdust,  ap 
peared  —  gathered,  hesitated,  then  ran  down 
gayly  and  leapt  off  the  end. 

"Look!  Hiram!  It's  running!"  I  called. 

Hiram,  boring  the  next  tree,  made  no  re 
sponse.  He  evidently  expected  it  to  run. 
Jonathan  would  have  acted  just  like  that,  too, 
I  felt  sure.  Is  it  a  masculine  quality,  I  wonder, 
to  be  unmoved  when  the  theoretically  ex 
pected  becomes  actual?  Or  is  it  that  some 
temperaments  have  naturally  a  certain  large 
confidence  in  the  sway  of  law,  and  refuse  to 
wonder  at  its  individual  workings?  To  me  the 
individual  workings  give  an  ever  fresh  thrill 
because  they  bring  a  new  realization  of  the 
mighty  powers  behind  them.  It  seems  to  de 
pend  on  which  end  you  begin  at. 

But  though  the  little  drops  thrilled  me,  I 


28  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

was  not  beyond  setting  a  pail  underneath  to 
catch  them.  And  as  Hiram  went  on  boring,  I 
followed  with  my  pails.  Pails,  did  I  say? 
Pails  by  courtesy.  There  were,  indeed,  a  few 
real  pails  —  berry-pails,  lard-pails,  and  water- 
pails  —  but  for  the  most  part  the  sap  fell  into 
pitchers,  or  tin  saucepans,  stew-kettles  of 
aluminum  or  agate  ware,  blue  and  gray  and 
white  and  mottled,  or  big  yellow  earthenware 
bowls.  It  was  a  strange  collection  of  recep 
tacles  that  lined  the  roadside  when  we  had 
finished  our  progress.  As  I  looked  along  the 
row,  I  laughed,  and  even  Hiram  smiled. 

But  what  next?  Every  utensil  in  the  house 
was  out  there,  sitting  in  the  road.  There  was 
nothing  left  but  the  wash-boiler.  Now,  I  had 
heard  tales  of  amateur  syrup-boilings,  and  I 
felt  that  the  wash-boiler  would  not  do.  Be 
sides,  I  meant  to  work  outdoors  —  no  kitchen 
stove  for  me!  I  must  have  a  pan,  a  big,  flat 
pan.  I  flew  to  the  telephone,  and  called  up 
the  village  plumber,  three  miles  away.  Could 
he  build  me  a  pan?  Oh,  say,  two  feet  by  three 
feet,  and  five  inches  high  —  yes,  right  away. 
Yes,  Hiram  would  call  for  it  in  the  afternoon. 

I  felt  better.  And  now  for  a  fireplace !  Oh, 


SAP-TIME  29 

Jonathan!  Why  did  you  have  to  be  away! 
For  Jonathan  loves  a  stone  and  knows  how 
to  put  stones  together,  as  witness  the  stone 
"Eyrie"  and  the  stile  in  the  lane.  However, 
there  Jonathan  was  n't.  So  I  went  out  into 
the  swampy  orchard  behind  the  house  and 
looked  about  —  no  lack  of  stones,  at  any  rate. 
I  began  to  collect  material,  and  Hiram,  see 
ing  my  purpose,  helped  with  the  big  stones. 
Somehow  my  fireplace  got  made  —  two  side 
walls,  one  end  wall,  the  other  end  left  open 
for  stoking.  It  was  not  as  pretty  as  if  Jona 
than  had  done  it,  but "  'twas  enough,  'twould 
serve."  I  collected  fire-wood,  and  there  I  was, 
ready  for  my  pan,  and  the  afternoon  was  yet 
young,  and  the  sap  was  drip-drip-dripping 
from  all  the  spouts.  I  could  begin  to  boil  next 
day.  I  felt  that  I  was  being  borne  along  on 
the  providential  wave  that  so  often  floats  the 
inexperienced  to  success. 

That  night  I  emptied  all  my  vessels  into 
the  boiler  and  set  them  out  once  more.  A 
neighbor  drove  by  and  pulled  up  to  comment 
benevolently  on  my  work. 

"Will  it  run  to-night?"  I  asked  him. 

"No  —  no  —  't won't  run  to-night.     Too 


30  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

cold.  'T  won't  run  any  to-night.  You  can 
sleep  all  right." 

This  was  pleasant  to  hear.  There  was  a 
moon,  to  be  sure,  but  it  was  growing  colder, 
and  at  the  idea  of  crawling  along  that  road  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  even  my  enthusiasm 
shivered  a  little. 

So  I  made  my  rounds  at  nine,  in  the  white 
moonlight,  and  went  to  sleep. 

I  was  awakened  the  next  morning  to  a  con 
sciousness  of  flooding  sunshine  and  Hiram's 
voice  outside  my  window. 

"Got  anything  I  can  empty  sap  into?  I've 
got  everything  all  filled  up." 

"Sap!  Why,  it  is  n't  running  yet,  is  it?" 

"Pails  were  flowin'  over  when  I  came  out." 

"Flowing  over !  They  said  the  sap  would  n't 
run  last  night." 

"I  guest  there  don't  nobody  know  when 
sap '11  run  and  when  it  won't,"  said  Hiram 
peacefully,  as  he  tramped  off  to  the  barn. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  was  outdoors.  Sure 
enough,  Hiram  had  everything  full  —  old 
boilers,  feed-pails,  water-pails.  But  we  found 
some  three-gallon  milk-cans  and  used  them. 
A  farm  is  like  a  city.  There  are  always  things 


SAP-TIME  31 

enough  in  it  for  all  purposes.  It  is  only  a 
question  of  using  its  resources. 

Then,  in  the  clear  April  sunshine,  I  went 
out  and  surveyed  the  row  of  maples.  How 
they  did  drip!  Some  of  them  almost  ran.  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  turned  on  the  faucets  of  the 
universe  and  did  n't  know  how  to  turn  them 
off  again. 

However,  there  was  my  new  pan.  I  set  it 
over  my  oven  walls  and  began  to  pour  in  sap. 
Hiram  helped  me.  He  seemed  to  think  he 
needed  his  feed-pails.  We  poured  in  sap  and 
we  poured  in  sap.  Never  did  I  see  anything 
hold  so  much  as  that  pan.  Even  Hiram  was 
stirred  out  of  his  usual  calm  to  remark,  "It 
beats  all,  how  much  that  holds."  Of  course 
Jonathan  would  have  had  its  capacity  all  cal 
culated  the  day  before,  but  my  methods  are 
empirical,  and  so  I  was  surprised  as  well  as 
pleased  when  all  my  receptacles  emptied 
themselves  into  its  shallow  breadths  and  still 
there  was  a  good  inch  to  allow  for  boiling  up. 
Yes,  Providence  —  my  exclusive  little  fool's 
Providence  —  was  with  me.  The  pan,  and 
the  oven,  were  a  success,  and  when  Jonathan 
came  that  night  I  led  him  out  with  uncon- 


32  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

cealed  pride  and  showed  him  the  pan  —  now 
a  heaving,  frothing  mass  of  sap-about-to-be- 
syrup,  sending  clouds  of  white  steam  down 
the  wind.  As  he  looked  at  the  oven  walls, 
I  fancied  his  fingers  ached  to  get  at  them, 
but  he  offered  no  criticism,  seeing  that  they 
worked. 

The  next  day  began  overcast,  but  Provi 
dence  was  merely  preparing  for  me  a  special 
little  gift  in  the  form  of  a  miniature  snow 
storm.  It  was  quite  real  while  it  lasted.  It 
whitened  the  grass  and  the  road,  it  piled  itself 
softly  among  the  clusters  of  swelling  buds  on 
the  apple  trees,  and  made  the  orchard  look  as 
though  it  had  burst  into  bloom  in  an  hour. 
Then  the  sun  came  out,  there  were  a  few 
dazzling  moments  when  the  world  was  all 
blue  and  silver,  and  then  the  whiteness  faded. 

And  the  sap!  How  it  dripped!  Once  an 
hour  I  had  to  make  the  rounds,  bringing  back 
gallons  each  time,  and  the  fire  under  my  pan 
was  kept  up  so  that  the  boiling  down  might 
keep  pace  with  the  new  supply. 

"They  do  say  snow  makes  it  run,"  shouted 
a  passer-by,  and  another  called,  "You  want 
to  keep  skimmin'!"  Whereupon  I  seized  my 


SAP-TIME  33 

long-handled  skimmer  and  fell  to  work. 
Southern  Connecticut  does  not  know  much 
about  syrup,  but  by  the  avenue  of  the  road  I 
was  gradually  accumulating  such  wisdom  as 
it  possessed. 

The  syrup  was  made.  No  worse  accident 
befell  than  the  occasional  overflowing  of  a 
pail  too  long  neglected.  The  syrup  was  made, 
and  bottled,  and  distributed  to  friends,  and 
was  the  pride  of  the  household  through  the 
year. 

"This  time  I  will  go  early,"  I  said  to  Jona 
than;  "they  say  the  late  running  is  never 
quite  so  good." 

It  was  early  March  when  I  got  up  there 
this  time  —  early  March  after  a  winter  whose 
rigor  had  known  practically  no  break.  Again 
Jonathan  could  not  come,  but  Cousin  Janet 
could,  and  we  met  at  the  little  station,  where 
Hiram  was  waiting  with  Kit  and  the  surrey. 
The  sun  was  warm,  but  the  air  was  keen  and 
the  woods  hardly  showed  spring  at  all  yet, 
even  in  that  first  token  of  it,  the  slight  thick 
ening  of  their  millions  of  little  tips,  through 
the  swelling  of  the  buds.  The  city  trees  al- 


34  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

ready  showed  this,  but  the  country  ones  still 
kept  their  wintry  penciling  of  vanishing  lines. 

Spring  was  in  the  road,  however.  "There 
ain't  no  bottom  to  this  road  now,  it 's  just 
dropped  clean  out,"  remarked  a  fellow  team 
ster  as  we  wallowed  along  companionably 
through  the  woods.  But,  somehow,  we 
reached  the  farm.  Again  we  bored  our  holes, 
and  again  I  was  thrilled  as  the  first  bright 
drops  slipped  out  and  jeweled  the  ends  of  the 
spouts.  I  watched  Janet.  She  was  interested 
but  calm,  classing  herself  at  once  with  Hiram 
and  Jonathan.  We  unearthed  last  year's 
oven  and  dug  out  its  inner  depths  —  leaves 
and  dirt  and  apples  and  ashes  —  it  was  like 
excavating  through  the  seven  Troys  to  get  to 
bottom.  We  brought  down  the  big  pan,  now 
clothed  in  the  honors  of  a  season's  use,  and 
cleaned  off  the  cobwebs  incident  to  a  year's 
sojourn  in  the  attic.  By  sunset  we  had  a  pan 
ful  of  sap  boiling  merrily  and  already  taking 
on  a  distinctly  golden  tinge.  We  tasted  it.  It 
was  very  syrupy.  Letting  the  fire  die  down, 
we  went  in  to  get  supper  in  the  utmost  con 
tent  of  spirit. 

"It's  so  much  simpler  than  last  year,"  I 


SAP-TIME  35 

said,  as  we  sat  over  our  cozy  "tea,"  —  "hav 
ing  the  pan  and  the  oven  ready-made,  and 
all—" 

"You  don't  suppose  anything  could  hap 
pen  to  it  while  we're  in  here?"  suggested 
Janet.  "Shan't  I  just  run  out  and  see?" 

"No,  sit  still.  What  could  happen?  The 
fire 's  going  out." 

"Yes,  I  know."  But  her  voice  was  un 
certain. 

"You  see,  I've  been  all  through  it  once,"  I 
reassured  her. 

As  we  rose,  Janet  said,  "Let 's  go  out  before 
we  do  the  dishes."  And  to  humor  her  I  agreed. 
We  lighted  the  lantern  and  stepped  out  on  the 
back  porch.  It^was  quite  dark,  and  as  we 
looked  off  toward  the  fireplace  we  saw  gleams 
of  red. 

"How  funny!"  I  murmured.  "I  didn't 
think  there  was  so  much  fire  left." 

We  felt  our  way  over,  through  the  yielding 
mud  of  the  orchard,  and  as  I  raised  the  lan 
tern  we  stared  in  dazed  astonishment.  The  pan 
was  a  blackened  mass,  lit  up  by  winking  red 
eyes  of  fire.  I  held  the  lantern  more  closely. 
I  seized  a  stick  and  poked  —  the  crisp  black 


36  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

stuff  broke  and  crumbled  into  an  empty  and 
blackening  pan.  A  curious  odor  arose. 

"It  could  n't  have!"  gasped  Janet. 

"It  could  n't  —  but  it  has!"  I  said. 

It  was  a  matter  for  tears,  or  rage,  or 
laughter.  And  laughter  won.  When  we  re 
covered  a  little  we  took  up  the  black  shell  of 
carbon  that  had  once  been  syrup-froth;  we 
laid  it  gently  beside  the  oven,  for  a  keepsake. 
Then  we  poured  water  in  the  pan,  and  steam 
rose  hissing  to  the  stars. 

"Does  it  leak?"  faltered  Janet. 

"Leak!"  I  said.  I  was  on  my  knees  now, 
watching  the  water  stream  through  the 
parted  seam  of  the  pan  bottom,  down  into  the 
ashes  below. 

"The  question  is,"  I  went  on  as  I  got  up, 
"did  it  boil  away  because  it  leaked,  or  did  it 
leak  because  it  boiled  away?" 

"I  don't  see  that  it  matters  much,"  said 
Janet.  She  was  showing  symptoms  of  depres 
sion  at  this  point. 

"It  matters  a  great  deal,"  I  said.  "Be 
cause,  you  see,  we've  got  to  tell  Jonathan, 
and  it  makes  all  the  difference  how  we  put 
it." 


SAP-TIME  37 

"I  see,"  said  Janet;  then  she  added,  ex 
perimentally,  "Why  tell  Jonathan?" 

"Why,  Janet,  you  know  better!  I  wouldn't 
miss  telling  Jonathan  for  anything.  What  is 
Jonathan  for! " 

"Well  —  of  course,"  she  conceded.  "Let's 
do  dishes." 

We  sat  before  the  fire  that  evening  and  I 
read  while  Janet  knitted.  Between  my  eyes 
and  the  printed  page  there  kept  rising  a  vision 
—  a  vision  of  black  crust,  with  winking  red 
embers  smoldering  along  its  broken  edges.  I 
found  it  distracting  in  the  extreme.  .  .  . 

At  some  time  unknown,  out  of  the  blind 
depths  of  the  night,  I  was  awakened  by  a 
voice:  — 

"It's  beginning  to  rain.  I  think  I'll  just 
go  out  and  empty  what's  near  the  house." 

"Janet!"  I  murmured,  "don't  be  absurd." 

"But  it  will  dilute  all  that  sap." 

"There  is  n't  any  sap  to  dilute.  It  won't 
be  running  at  night."  After  a  while  the  voice, 
full  of  propitiatory  intonations,  resumed:  — 

"My  dear,  you  don't  mind  if  I  slip  out.  It 
will  only  take  a  minute." 

"I  do  mind.  Go  to  sleep!" 


38  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

Silence.  Then:  — 

"It's  raining  harder.  I  hate  to  think  of  all 
that  sap  - 

"You  don't  have  to  think!"  I  was  quite 
savage.  "Just  go  to  sleep  —  and  let  me!" 
Another  silence.  Then  a  fresh  downpour. 
The  voice  was  pleading :  — 

"  Please  let  me  go !  I  '11  be  back  in  a  minute. 
And  it's  not  cold." 

"  Oh,  well  —  I  'm  awake  now,  anyway.  /'// 
go."  My  voice  was  tinged  with  that  high 
resignation  that  is  worse  than  anger.  Janet's 
tone  changed  instantly:  — 

"No,  no!  Don't!  Please  don't!  I'm  going. 
I  truly  don't  mind." 

"I'm  going.  I  don't  mind,  either,  not  at 
all." 

"Oh,  dear!  Then  let 's  not  either  of  us  go." 

"That  was  my  idea  in  the  first  place." 

"Well,  then,  we  won't.  Go  to  sleep,  and  I 
will  too." 

"Not  at  all!  I've  decided  to  go." 

"But  it's  stopped  raining.  Probably  it 
won't  rain  any  more." 

"Then  what  are  you  making  all  this  fuss 
for?" 


SAP-TIME  39 

"I  didn't  make  a  fuss.  I  just  thought  I 
could  slip  out — " 

"  Well,  you  could  n't.  And  it 's  raining  very 
hard  again.  And  I'm  going." 

"Oh,  don't!  You'll  get  drenched." 

"Of  course.  But  I  can't  bear  to  have  all 
that  sap  diluted." 

"It  doesn't  run  at  night.  You  said  it 
did  n't." 

"You  said  it  did." 

"  But  I  don't  really  know.  You  know  best." 

"Why  didn't  you  think  of  that  sooner? 
Anyway,  I'm  going." 

"Oh,  dear!  You  make  me  feel  as  if  I'd 
stirred  you  up  — " 

"You  have,"  I  interrupted,  sweetly.  "I 
won't  deny  that  you  have  stirred  me  up.  But 
now  that  you  have  mentioned  it"  —  I  felt 
for  a  match  —  "now  that  you  have  men 
tioned  it,  I  see  that  this  was  the  one  thing 
needed  to  make  my  evening  complete,  or 
perhaps  it's  morning  —  I  don't  know." 

We  found  the  dining-room  warm,  and  soon 
we  were  equipped  in  those  curious  compro 
mises  of  vesture  that  people  adopt  under  such 
circumstances,  and,  with  lantern  and  um- 


40  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

brella,  we  fumbled  our  way  out  to  the  trees. 
The  rain  was  driving  in  sheets,  and  we 
plodded  up  the  road  in  the  yellow  circle  of 
lantern-light  wavering  uncertainly  over  the 
puddles,  while  under  our  feet  the  mud  gave 
and  sucked. 

"It's  diluted,  sure  enough,"  I  said,  as  we 
emptied  the  pails.  We  crawled  slowly  back, 
with  our  heavy  milk-can  full  of  sap-and-rain- 
water,  and  went  in. 

The  warm  dining-room  was  pleasant  to  re 
turn  to,  and  we  sat  down  to  cookies  and  milk, 
feeling  almost  cozy. 

"  I  've  always  wanted  to  know  how  it  would 
be  to  go  out  in  the  middle  of  the  night  this 
way,"  I  remarked,  "and  now  I  know." 

"Are  n't  you  hateful!"  said  Janet. 

"Not  at  all.  Just  appreciative.  But  now, 
if  you  have  n't  any  other  plan,  we'll  go  back 
to  bed." 

It  was  half -past  eight  when  we  waked  next 
morning.  But  there  was  nothing  to  wake  up 
for.  The  old  house  was  filled  with  the  rain- 
noises  that  only  such  an  old  house  knows. 
On  the  little  windows  the  drops  pricked 
sharply;  in  the  fireplace  with  the  straight  flue 


SAP-TIME  41 

they  fell,  hissing,  on  the  embers.  On  the 
porch  roofs  the  rain  made  a  dull  patter  of 
sound;  on  the  tin  roof  of  the  "little  attic" 
over  the  kitchen  it  beat  with  flat  resonance. 
In  the  big  attic,  when  we  went  up  to  see  if  all 
was  tight,  it  filled  the  place  with  a  multitudi 
nous  clamor;  on  the  sides  of  the  house  it  drove 
with  a  fury  that  re-echoed  dimly  within  doors. 

Outside,  everything  was  afloat.  We  visited 
the  trees  and  viewed  with  consternation  the 
torrents  of  rain-water  pouring  into  the  pails. 
We  tried  fastening  pans  over  the  spouts  to 
protect  them.  The  wind  blew  them  merrily 
down  the  road.  It  would  have  been  easy 
enough  to  cover  the  pails,  but  how  to  let  the 
sap  drip  in  and  the  rain  drip  out  —  that  was 
the  question. 

"It  seems  as  if  there  was  a  curse  on  the 
syrup  this  year,"  said  Janet. 

"The  trouble  is,"  I  said,  "I  know  just 
enough  to  have  lost  my  hold  on  the  fool's 
Providence,  and  not  enough  really  to  take 
care  of  myself." 

"  Superstition ! "  said  Janet. 

"What  do  you  call  your  idea  of  the  curse?  " 
I  retorted.  "Anyway,  I  have  an  idea!  Lo< 


42  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

Janet!  We'll  just  cut  up  these  enamel-cloth 
table-covers  here  by  the  sink  and  everywhere, 
and  tack  them  around  the  spouts." 

Janet's  thrifty  spirit  was  doubtful.  "Don't 
you  need  them?" 

"Not  half  so  much  as  the  trees  do.  Come 
on!  Pull  them  off.  We '11  have  to  have  fresh 
ones  this  summer,  anyway." 

We  stripped  the  kitchen  tables  and  the 
pantry  and  the  milk-room.  We  got  tacks  and 
a  hammer  and  scissors,  and  out  we  went  again. 
We  cut  a  piece  for  each  tree,  just  enough  to 
go  over  each  pair  of  spouts  and  protect  the 
pail.  When  tacked  on,  it  had  the  appearance 
of  a  neat  bib,  and  as  the  pattern  was  a  blue 
and  white  check,  the  effect,  as  one  looked 
down  the  road  at  the  twelve  trees,  was  very 
fresh  and  pleasing.  It  seemed  to  cheer  the 
people  who  drove  by,  too. 

But  the  bibs  served  their  purpose,  and  the 
sap  dripped  cozily  into  the  pails  without  any 
distraction  from  alien  elements.  Sap  doesn't 
run  in  the  rain,  they  say,  but  this  sap  did. 
Probably  Hiram  was  right,  and  you  can't  tell. 
I  am  glad  if  you  can't.  The  physical  mys 
teries  of  the  universe  are  being  unveiled  so 


SAP-TIME  43 

swiftly  that  one  likes  to  find  something  that 
still  keeps  its  secret  —  though,  indeed,  the 
spiritual  mysteries  seem  in  no  danger  of  such 
enforcement. 

The  next  day  the  rain  stopped,  the  floods 
began  to  subside,  and  Jonathan  managed  to 
arrive,  though  the  roads  had  even  less  "bot 
tom  to  'em  "  than  before.  The  sun  blazed  out, 
and  the  sap  ran  faster,  and,  after  Jonathan 
had  fully  enjoyed  them,  the  blue  and  white 
bibs  were  taken  off.  Somehow  in  the  clear 
March  sunshine  they  looked  almost  shocking. 
By  the  next  day  we  had  syrup  enough  to  try 
for  sugar. 

For  on  sugar  my  heart  was  set.  Syrup  was 
all  very  well  for  the  first  year,  but  now  it 
had  to  be  sugar.  Moreover,  as  I  explained  to 
Janet,  when  it  came  to  sugar,  being  absolutely 
ignorant,  I  was  again  in  a  position  to  expect 
the  aid  of  the  fool's  Providence. 

"How  much  do  you  know  about  it?  "  asked 
Janet. 

"Oh,  just  what  people  say.  It  seems  to  be 
partly  like  fudge  and  partly  like  molasses 
candy.  You  boil  it,  and  then  you  beat  it,  and 
then  you  pour  it  off." 


44  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"I've  got  more  to  go  on  than  that,"  said 
Jonathan.  "I  came  up  on  the  train  with  the 
Judge.  He  used  to  see  it  done." 

"You've  got  to  drive  Janet  over  to  her 
train  to-night;  Hiram  can't,"  I  said. 

"All  right.  There's  time  enough." 

We  sat  down  to  early  supper,  and  took 
turns  running  out  to  the  kitchen  to  "try" 
the  syrup  as  it  boiled  down.  At  least  we  said 
we  would  take  turns,  but  usually  we  all  three 
went.  Supper  seemed  distinctly  a  side  issue. 

"I'm  going  to  take  it  off  now,"  said  Jona 
than.  "Lookout!" 

"Do  you  think  it's  time1?"  I  demurred. 

"We  '11  know  soon,"  said  Jonathan,  with 
his  usual  composure. 

We  hung  over  him.  "Now  you  beat  it,"  I 
said.  But  he  was  already  beating. 

"Get  some  cold  water  to  set  it  in,"  he  com 
manded.  We  brought  the  dishpan  with  water 
from  the  well,  where  ice  still  floated. 

"Maybe  you  ought  n't  to  stir  so  much  — 
do  you  think?"  I  suggested,  helpfully.  "Beat 
it  more  —  up,  you  know." 

"More  the  way  you  would  eggs,"  said 
Janet. 


SAP-TIME  45 

"I'll  show  you."   I  lunged  at  the  spoon. 

"Go  away!  This  isn't  eggs,"  said  Jona 
than,  beating  steadily. 

"Your  arm  must  be  tired.  Let  me  take  it," 
pleaded  Janet. 

"No,  me!"  I  said.  "Janet,  you've  got  to 
get  your  coat  and  things.  You  '11  have  to  start 
in  fifteen  minutes.  Here,  Jonathan,  you  need 
a  fresh  arm." 

"I'm  fresh  enough." 

"And  I  really  don't  think  you  have  the 
motion." 

"I  have  motion  enough.  This  is  my  job. 
You  go  and  help  Janet." 

"Janet 'sail  right." 

"So  am  I.  See  how  white  it 's  getting.  The 
Judge  said  — " 

"Here  come  Hiram  and  Kit,"  announced 
Janet,  returning  with  bag  and  wraps.  "But 
you  have  ten  minutes.  Can't  I  help?" 

"He  won't  let  us.  He's  that  'sot,'"  I 
murmured.  "He  '11  make  you  miss  your 
train." 

"You  could  butter  the  pans,"  he  counter 
charged,  "and  you  have  n't." 

We  flew  to  prepare,  and  the  pouring  began. 


46  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

It  was  a  thrilling  moment.  The  syrup,  or 
sugar,  now  a  pale  hay  color,  poured  out 
thickly,  blob-blob-blob,  into  the  little  pans. 
Janet  moved  them  up  as  they  were  needed, 
and  I  snatched  the  spoon,  at  last,  and  en 
couraged  the  stuff  to  fall  where  it  should.  But 
Jonathan  got  it  from  me  again,  and  scraped 
out  the  remnant,  making  designs  of  clovers 
and  polliwogs  on  the  tops  of  the  cakes.  Then 
a  dash  for  coats  and  hats  and  a  rush  to  the 
carriage. 

When  the  surrey  disappeared  around  the 
turn  of  the  road,  I  went  back,  shivering,  to 
the  house.  It  seemed  very  empty,  as  houses 
will,  being  sensitive  things.  I  went  to  the 
kitchen.  There  on  the  table  sat  a  huddle  of 
little  pans,  to  cheer  me,  and  I  fell  to  work 
getting  things  in  order  to  be  left  in  the  morn 
ing.  Then  I  went  back  to  the  fire  and  waited 
for  Jonathan.  I  picked  up  a  book  and  tried 
to  read,  but  the  stillness  of  the  house  was 
too  importunate,  it  had  to  be  listened  to.  I 
leaned  back  and  watched  the  fire,  and  the  old 
house  and  I  held  communion  together. 

Perhaps  in  no  other  way  is  it  possible  to  get 
quite  what  I  got  that  evening.  It  was  partly 


SAP-TIME  47 

my  own  attitude;  I  was  going  away  in  the 
morning,  and  I  had,  in  a  sense,  no  duties 
toward  the  place.  The  magazines  of  last  fall 
lay  on  the  tables,  the  newspapers  of  last  fall 
lay  beside  them.  The  dust  of  last  fall  was, 
doubtless,  in  the  closets  and  on  the  floors.  It 
did  not  matter.  For  though  I  was  the  mistress 
of  the  house,  I  was  for  the  moment  even  more 
its  guest,  and  guests  do  not  concern  them 
selves  with  such  things  as  these. 

If  it  had  been  really  an  empty  house,  I 
should  have  been  obliged  to  think  of  these 
things,  for  in  an  empty  house  the  dust  speaks 
and  the  house  is  still,  dumbly  imprisoned  in 
its  own  past.  On  the  other  hand,  when  a 
house  is  filled  with  life,  it  is  still,  too;  it  is 
absorbed  in  its  own  present.  But  when  one 
sojourns  in  a  house  that  is  merely  resting,  full 
of  the  life  that  has  only  for  a  brief  season  left 
it,  ready  for  the  life  that  is  soon  to  return  — 
then  one  is  in  the  midst  of  silences  that  are 
not  empty  and  hollow,  but  richly  eloquent. 
The  house  is  the  link  that  joins  and  interprets 
the  living  past  and  the  living  future. 

Something  of  this  I  came  to  feel  as  I  sat 
there  in  the  wonderful  stillness.  There  were 


48  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

no  house  noises  such  as  generally  form  the 
unnoticed  background  of  one's  consciousness 

-  the  steps  overhead,  the  distant  voices,  the 
ticking  of  the  clock,  the  breathing  of  the  dog 
in  the  corner.  Even  the  mice  and  the  chimney- 
swallows  had  not  come  back,  and  I  missed  the 
scurrying  in  the  walls  and  the  flutter  of  wings 
in  the  chimney.  The  fire  purred  low,  now  and 
then  the  wind  sighed  gently  about  the  corner 
of  the  "new  part,"  and  a  loose  door-latch 
clicked  as  the  draught  shook  it.  A  branch 
drew  back  and  forth  across  a  window-pane 
with  the  faintest  squeak.  And  little  by  little 
the  old  house  opened  its  heart.  All  that  it 
told  me  I  hardly  yet  know  myself.  It  gathered 
up  for  me  all  its  past,  the  past  that  I  had 
known  and  the  past  that  I  had  not  known. 
Time  fell  away.  My  own  importance  dwin 
dled.  I  seemed  a  very  small  part  of  the  life 
of  the  house  —  very  small,  yet  wholly  belong 
ing  to  it.  I  felt  that  it  absorbed  me  as  it 
absorbed  the  rest  —  those  before  and  after 
me  —  for  time  was  not. 

There  was  the  sound  of  slow  wheels  out 
side,  the  long  roll  of  the  carriage-house  door, 
and  the  trampling  of  hoofs  on  the  flooring 


SAP-TIME  49 

within.  Then  the  clinking  of  the  lantern  and 
the  even  tread  of  feet  on  the  path  behind  the 
house,  a  gust  of  raw  snow-air  —  and  the  house 
fell  silent  so  that  Jonathan  might  come  in. 

"Your  sugar  is  hardening  nicely,  I  see," 
he  said,  rubbing  his  hands  before  the  fire. 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "You  know  I  told  Janet 
that  for  this  part  of  the  affair  we  could  trust 
to  the  fool's  Providence." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Jonathan. 


Ill 

Evenings  on  the  Farm 

I  'm  going  out  to  clean  the  pasture  spring; 
I  '11  only  stop  to  rake  the  leaves  away 
(And  wait  to  watch  the  water  clear,  I  may); 
I  shan't  be  gone  long.  —  You  come  too. 

I  'm  going  out  to  fetch  the  little  calf 
That 's  standing  by  the  mother.    It 's  so  young, 
It  totters  when  she  licks  it  with  her  tongue. 
I  shan't  be  gone  long.  —  You  come  too. 

ROBERT  FROST. 

WHEN  we  first  planned  to  take  up  the  farm 
we  looked  forward  with  especial  pleasure  to 
our  evenings.  They  were  to  be  the  quiet 
rounding-in  of  our  days,  full  of  companion 
ship,  full  of  meditation.  "We'll  do  lots  of 
reading  aloud,"  I  said.  "And  we'll  have  long 
walks.  There  won't  be  much  to  do  but  walk 
and  read.  I  can  hardly  wait."  And  I  chose 
our  summer  books  with  special  reference  to 
reading  aloud. 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  as  we  fell  to  work  at 
our  packing,  "we'll  have  to  do  all  sorts  of 
things  first.  But  the  days  are  so  long  up  there, 
and  the  life  is  very  simple.  And  in  the  even- 


EVENINGS  ON  THE  FARM  51 

ings  you'll  help.  We  ought  to  be  settled  in  a 
week." 

"Or  two — or  three,"  suggested  Jonathan. 

"Three!  What  is  there  to  do?" 

"Farm-life  is  n't  so  blamed  simple  as  you 
think." 

"But  what  is  there  to  do?  Now,  listen! 
One  day  for  trunks,  one  day  for  boxes  and 
barrels,  one  day  for  closets,  that's  three,  one 
for  curtains,  four,  one  day  for  —  for  the  gar 
ret,  that 's  five.  Well  —  one  day  for  odds  and 
ends  that  I  haven't  thought  of.  That's 
liberal,  I'm  sure." 

"Better  say  the  rest  of  your  life  for  the 
odds  and  ends  you  have  n't  thought  of,"  said 
Jonathan,  as  he  drove  the  last  nail  in  a  neatly 
headed  barrel. 

"Jonathan,  why  are  you  such  a  pessimist?  " 

"I'm  not,  except  when  you're  such  an 
optimist." 

"If  I'd  begun  by  saying  it  would  take  a 
month,  would  you  have  said  a  week?" 

"Can't  tell.  Might  have." 

"Anyway,  there 's  nothing  bad  about  odds 
and  ends.  They're  about  all  women  have 
much  to  do  with  most  of  their  lives." 


52  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

" That's  what  I  said.  And  you  called  me  a 
pessimist." 

"I  did  n't  call  you  one.  I  said,  why  were 
you  one." 

"I'm  sorry.  My  mistake,"  said  Jonathan 
with  the  smile  of  one  who  scores. 

And  so  we  went. 

One  day  for  trunks  was  all  right.  Any  one 
can  manage  trunks.  And  the  second  day,  the 
boxes  were  emptied  and  sent  flying  out  to  the 
barn.  Curtains  I  decided  to  keep  for  evening 
work,  while  Jonathan  read.  That  left  the 
closets  and  the  attic,  or  rather  the  attics,  for 
there  was  one  over  the  main  house  and  one 
over  the  " new  part,"  —  still  "new,"  although 
now  some  seventy  years  old.  They  were 
known  as  the  attic  and  the  little  attic.  I 
thought  I  would  do  the  closets  first,  and  I  be 
gan  with  the  one  in  the  parlor.  This  was  built 
into  the  chimney,  over  the  fireplace.  It  was 
low,  and  as  long  as  the  mantelpiece  itself.  It 
had  two  long  shelves  shut  away  behind  three 
glass  doors  through  which  the  treasures  within 
were  dimly  visible.  When  I  swung  these  open 
it  felt  like  opening  a  tomb  —  cold,  musty 


EVENINGS  ON  THE  FARM  53 

air  hung  about  my  face.  I  brushed  it  aside, 
and  considered  where  to  begin.  It  was  a  de 
pressing  collection.  There  were  photographs 
and  photographs,  some  in  frames,  the  rest  of 
them  tied  up  in  packages  or  lying  in  piles.  A 
few  had  names  or  messages  written  on  the 
back,  but  most  gave  no  clue;  and  all  of  them 
gazed  out  at  me  with  that  expression  of  com 
plete  respectability  that  constitutes  so  im 
penetrable  a  mask  for  the  personality  behind. 
Most  of  us  wear  such  masks,  but  the  older 
photographers  seem  to  have  been  singularly 
successful  in  concentrating  attention  on  them. 
Then  there  were  albums,  with  more  photo 
graphs,  of  people  and  of  "views."  There  was 
a  big  Bible,  some  prayer-books,  and  a  few 
other  books  elaborately  bound  with  that 
heavy  f  ancif  ulness  that  we  are  learning  to  call 
Victorian.  One  of  these  was  on  "The  Won 
ders  of  the  Great  West";  another  was  about 
"The  Female  Saints  of  America."  I  took  it 
down  and  glanced  through  it,  but  concluded 
that  one  had  to  be  a  female  saint,  or  at  least 
an  aspirant,  to  appreciate  it.  Then  there  were 
things  made  out  of  dried  flowers,  out  of  hair, 
out  of  shells,  out  of  pine-cones.  There  were 


54  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

vases  and  other  ornamental  bits  of  china  and 
glass,  also  Victorian,  looking  as  if  they  were 
meant  to  be  continually  washed  or  dusted  by 
the  worn,  busy  fingers  of  the  female  saints.  As 
I  came  to  fuller  realization  of  all  these  relics, 
my  resolution  flickered  out  and  there  fell  upon 
me  a  strange  numbness  of  spirit.  I  seemed 
under  a  spell  of  inaction.  Everything  behind 
those  glass  doors  had  been  cherished  too  long 
to  be  lightly  thrown  away,  yet  was  not  old 
enough  to  be  valuable  nor  useful  enough  to 
keep.  I  spent  a  long  day  —  one  of  the  longest 
days  of  my  life  —  browsing  through  the  books, 
trying  to  sort  the  photographs,  and  glancing 
through  a  few  old  letters.  I  did  nothing  in 
particular  with  anything,  and  in  the  late  after 
noon  I  roused  myself,  put  them  all  back,  and 
shut  the  glass  doors.  I  had  nothing  to  show 
for  my  day's  experience  except  a  deep  little 
round  ache  in  the  back  of  my  neck  and  a  faint 
brassy  taste  in  my  mouth.  I  complained  of  it 
to  Jonathan  later. 

"  It  always  tasted  just  that  way  to  me  when 
I  was  a  boy,"  he  said,  "but  I  never  thought 
much  about  it  —  I  thought  it  was  just  a 
closet-taste." 


EVENINGS  ON  THE  FARM  55 

"And  it  is  n't  only  the  taste,"  I  went  on. 
"It  does  something  to  me,  to  my  state  of 
mind.  I'm  afraid  to  try  the  garret." 

"Garrets  are  different,"  said  Jonathan. 
"But  I'd  leave  them.  They  can  wait." 

"They've  waited  a  good  while,  of  course," 
I  said. 

And  so  we  left  the  garrets.  We  came  back 
to  them  later,  and  were  glad  we  had  done  so. 
But  that  is  a  story  by  itself. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  evenings,  Jonathan 
helped. 

"I'm  afraid  you  were  more  or  less  right 
about  the  odd  jobs,"  I  admitted  one  night. 
"They  do  seem  to  accumulate."  I  was  hold 
ing  a  candle  while  he  set  up  a  loose  latch. 

"They've  been  accumulating  a  good  many 
years,"  said  Jonathan. 

16  Yes,  that's  it.  And  so  the  doors  all  stick, 
and  the  latches  won't  latch,  and  the  shades 
are  sulky  or  wild,  and  the  pantry  shelves  — 
have  you  noticed?  —  they're  all  warped  so 
they  rock  when  you  set  a  dish  on  them." 

"And  the  chairs  pull  apart,"  added  Jona 
than. 


56  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 


"Yes.  Of  course  after  we  catch  up  we'll  be 
all  right." 

"I  would  n't  count  too  much  on  catching 
up." 

"  Why  not?  "I  asked. 

"The  farm  has  had  a  long  start." 

"But  you're  a  Yankee,"  I  argued;  "the 
Yankee  nature  fairly  feeds  on  such  jobs  — 
'putter  jobs,'  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"Only,  of  course,  you  get  on  faster  if  you  're 
not  too  particular  about  having  the  exact 
tool- 

Considered  as  a  Yankee,  Jonathan's  only 
fault  is  that  when  he  does  a  job  he  likes  to 
have  a  very  special  tool  to  do  it  with.  Often 
it  is  so  special  that  I  have  never  heard  its 
name  before  and  then  I  consider  he  is  going 
too  far.  He  merely  thinks  I  have  n't  gone  far 
enough.  Perhaps  such  matters  must  always 
remain  matters  of  opinion.  But  even  with 
this  handicap  we  did  begin  to  catch  up,  and 
we  could  have  done  this  a  good  deal  faster  if 
it  had  not  been  for  the  pump. 

The  pump  was  a  clear  case  of  new  wine  in 
an  old  bottle.  It  was  large  and  very  strong. 


EVENINGS  ON  THE  FARM  57 

The  people  who  worked  it  were  strong  too. 
But  the  walls  and  floor  to  which  it  was  at 
tached  were  not  strong  at  all.  And  so,  one 
night,  when  Jonathan  wanted  a  wralk  I  was 
obliged  instead  to  suggest  the  pump. 

"What's  the  matter  there?" 

"Why,  it  seems  to  have  pulled  clear  of  its 
moorings.  You  look  at  it." 

He  looked,  with  that  expression  of  medi 
tative  resourcefulness  peculiar  to  the  true 
Yankee  countenance.  "H'm —  needs  new 
wood  there,  —  and  there;  that  stuff '11  never 
hold."  And  so  the  old  bottle  was  patched  with 
new  skin  at  the  points  of  strain,  and  in  the  zest 
of  reconstruction  Jonathan  almost  forgot  to 
regret  the  walk.  "We'll  have  it  to-morrow 
night,"  he  said:  "the  moon  will  be  better." 

The  next  evening  I  met  him  below  the  turn  of 
the  road.  "  Wonderful  night  it 's  going  to  be," 
he  said,  as  he  pushed  his  wheel  up  the  last  hill. 

;<Yes — "I  said,  a  little  uneasily.  I  was 
thinking  of  the  kitchen  pump.  Finally  I 
brought  myself  to  face  it. 

"There  seems  to  be  some  trouble  —  with 
the  pump,"  I  said  apologetically.  I  felt  that 
it  was  my  fault,  though  I  knew  it  was  n't. 


58  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"More  trouble?  What  sort  of  trouble?" 

"Oh,  it  wheezes  and  makes  funny  sucking 
noises,  and  the  water  spits  and  spits,  and  then 
bursts  out,  and  then  does  n't  come  at  all.  It 
sounds  a  little  like  a  cat  with  a  bone  in  its 
throat." 

"Probably  just  that,"  said  Jonathan: 
"grain  of  sand  in  the  valve,  very  likely." 

"Shall  I  get  a  plumber?" 

"  Plumber !  I  '11  fix  it  myself  in  three  shakes 
of  a  lamb's  tail." 

"Well,"  I  said,  relieved:  "y°u  can  do  that 
after  supper  while  I  see  that  all  the  chickens 
are  in,  and  those  turkeys,  and  then  we'll  have 
our  walk." 

Accordingly  I  went  off  on  my  tour.  When 
I  returned  the  pale  moon-shadows  were  al 
ready  beginning  to  show  in  the  lingering  dusk 
of  the  fading  daylight.  Indoors  seemed  very 
dark,  but  on  the  kitchen  floor  a  candle  sat, 
flaring  and  dipping. 

"Jonathan,"  I  called,  "I'm  ready." 

"Well,  I'm  not,"  said  a  voice  at  my  feet. 

"Why,  where  are  you?  Oh,  there!"  I  bent 
down  and  peered  under  the  sink  at  a  shape 
crouched  there.  "  Have  n't  you  finished?  " 


EVENINGS  ON  THE  FARM  59 

"Finished!  I've  just  got  the  thing  apart." 

"I  should  say  you  had!"  I  regarded  the 
various  pieces  of  iron  and  leather  and  wood  as 
they  lay,  mere  dismembered  shapes,  about 
the  dim  kitchen. 

"It  does  n't  seem  as  if  it  would  ever  come 
together  again  —  to  be  a  pump,"  I  said  in 
some  depression. 

"Oh,  that's  easy!  It's  just  a  question  of 
time." 

"How  much  time?" 

"Heaven  knows." 

"Was  it  the  valve?" 

"It  was  —  several  things." 

His  tone  had  the  vagueness  born  of  concen 
tration.  I  could  see  that  this  was  no  time  to 
press  for  information.  Besides,  in  the  field 
of  mechanics,  as  Jonathan  has  occasionally 
pointed  out  to  me,  I  am  rather  like  a  traveler 
who  has  learned  to  ask  questions  in  a  foreign 
tongue,  but  not  to  understand  the  answers. 

"Well,  I'll  bring  my  sewing  out  here  —  or 
would  you  rather  have  me  read  to  you? 
There's  something  in  the  last  number  of  — " 

"No  —  get  your  sewing  —  blast  that 
screw!  Why  does  n't  it  start?  " 


60  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

Evidently  sewing  was  better  than  the  last 
number  of  anything.  I  settled  myself  under 
a  lamp,  while  Jonathan,  in  the  twilight  be 
neath  the  sink,  continued  his  mystic  rites, 
with  an  accompaniment  of  mildly  vitupera 
tive  or  persuasive  language,  addressed  some 
times  to  his  tools,  sometimes  to  the  screws 
and  nuts  and  other  parts,  sometimes  against 
the  men  who  made  them  or  the  plumbers  who 
put  them  in.  Now  and  then  I  held  a  candle, 
or  steadied  some  perverse  bit  of  metal  while 
he  worked  his  will  upon  it.  And  at  last  the 
phoenix  did  indeed  rise,  the  pump  was  again 
a  pump,  —  at  least  it  looked  like  one. 

"Suppose  it  does  n't  work,"  I  suggested. 

"  Suppose  it  does,"  said  Jonathan. 

He  began  to  pump  furiously.  "Pour  in 
water  there ! "  he  directed.  "  Keep  on  pouring 
— don't  stop — never  mind  if  she  does  spout." 
I  poured  and  he  pumped,  and  there  were  the 
usual  sounds  of  a  pump  resuming  activity: 
gurglings  and  spittings,  suckings  and  sudden 
spoutings;  but  at  last  it  seemed  to  get  its 
breath  —  a  few  more  long  strokes  of  the 
handle,  and  the  water  poured. 

"What  time  is  it?"  he  asked. 


EVENINGS  ON  THE  FARM  61 

"Oh,  fairly  late  —  about  ten  —  ten  min 
utes  past." 

Instead  of  our  walk,  we  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  under  the  big  maples  before  the  house 
and  looked  out  into  a  sea  of  moonlight.  It 
silvered  the  sides  of  the  old  gray  barns  and 
washed  over  the  blossoming  apple  trees  be 
yond  the  house.  Is  there  anything  more 
sweetly  still  than  the  stillness  of  moonlight 
over  apple  blossoms!  As  we  went  out  to 
the  barns  to  lock  up,  even  the  little  hencoops 
looked  poetic.  Passing  one  of  them,  we  half 
roused  the  feathered  family  within  and  heard 
muffled  peepings  and  a  smothered  clk-clk. 
Jonathan  was  by  this  time  so  serene  that  I 
felt  I  could  ask  him  a  question  that  had  oc 
curred  to  me. 

"Jonathan,  how  long  is  three  shakes  of  a 
lamb's  tail?" 

"Apparently,  my  dear,  it  is  the  whole  even 
ing,"  he  answered  unruffled. 

The  next  night  was  drizzly.  Well,  we  would 
have  books  instead  of  a  walk.  We  lighted  a 
fire,  May  though  it  was,  and  settled  down  be 
fore  it.  "What  shall  we  read?"  I  asked,  feel 
ing  very  cozy. 


62  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

Jonathan  was  filling  his  pipe  with  a  leisurely 
deliberation  good  to  look  upon.  With  the 
match  in  his  hand  he  paused  —  "Oh,  I  meant 
to  tell  you  —  those  young  turkeys  of  yours 

—  they  were  still  out  when  I  came  through 
the  yard.  I  wonder  if  they  went  in  all  right." 

I  have  always  noticed  that  if  the  turkeys 
grow  up  very  fat  and  strutty  and  suggestive- 
of  Thanksgiving,  Jonathan  calls  them  "our 
turkeys,"  but  in  the  spring,  when  they  are 
committing  all  the  naughtinesses  of  wild  and 
silly  youth,  he  is  apt  to  allude  to  them  as 
"those  young  turkeys  of  yours." 
r  I  rose  wearily.  "No.  They  never  go  in  all 
right  when  they  get  out  at  this  time  —  es 
pecially  on  wet  nights.  I  '11  have  to  find  them 
and  stow  them." 

Jonathan  got  up,  too,  and  laid  down  his 
pipe.  "You'll  need  the  lantern,"  he  said. 

We  went  out  together  into  the  May  drizzle 

—  a  good  thing  to  be  out  in,  too,  if  you  are 
out  for  the  fun  of  it.  But  when  you  are  hunt 
ing  silly  little  turkeys  who  literally  don't 
know  enough  to  go  in  when  it  rains,  and  when 
you  expected  and  wanted  to  be  doing  some 
thing  else,  then  it  seems  different,  the  drizzle 


EVENINGS  ON  THE  FARM  63 

seems  peculiarly  drizzly,  the  silliness  of  the 
turkeys  seems  particularly  and  unendurably 
silly. 

We  waded  through  the  drenched  grass  and 
the  tall,  dripping  weeds,  listening  for  the 
faint,  foolish  peeping  of  the  wanderers.  Some 
we  found  under  piled  fence  rails,  some  under 
burdock  leaves,  some  under  nothing  more 
protective  than  a  plantain  leaf.  By  ones  and 
twos  we  collected  them,  half  drowned  yet 
shrilly  remonstrant,  and  dropped  them  into 
the  dry  shed  where  they  belonged.  Then  we 
returned  to  the  house,  very  wet,  feeling  the 
kind  of  discouragement  that  usually  besets 
those  who  are  forced  to  furnish  prudence  to 
fools. 

"Nine  o'clock,"  said  Jonathan,  "and  we  're 
too  wet  to  sit  down.  If  you  could  just  shut  in 
those  turkeys  on  wet  days  — " 

"Shut  them  in!  Didn't  I  shut  them  in! 
They  must  have  got  out  since  four  o'clock." 

"Is  n't  the  shed  tight?"  he  asked. 

"Chicken-tight,  but  not  turkey-tight,  ap 
parently.  Nothing  is  turkey-tight." 

"They're  bigger  than  chickens." 

"  Not  in  any  one  spot  they  are  n't.  They  're 


64  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

like  coiled  wire  —  when  they  stretch  out  to 
get  through  a  crack  they  have  no  dimension 
except  length,  their  bodies  are  mere  imagin 
ary  points  to  hang  feathers  on.  You  don't 
know  little  turkeys." 

It  might  be  said  that,  having  undertaken 
to  raise  turkeys,  we  had  to  expect  them  to  act 
like  turkeys.  But  there  were  other  interrup 
tions  in  our  evenings  where  our  share  of  re 
sponsibility  was  not  so  plain.  For  example, 
one  wet  evening  in  early  June  we  had  kindled 
a  little  fire  and  I  had  brought  the  lamp  for 
ward.  The  pump  was  quiescent,  the  little 
turkeys  were  all  tucked  up  in  the  turkey 
equivalent  for  bed,  the  farm  seemed  to  be 
cuddling  down  into  itself  for  the  night.  We 
sat  for  a  moment  luxuriously  regarding  the 
flames,  listening  to  the  sighing  of  the  wind, 
feeling  the  sweet  damp  air  as  it  blew  in 
through  the  open  windows.  I  was  considering 
which  book  it  should  be  and  at  last  rose  to 
possess  myself  of  two  or  three. 

"Sh — h — h!"  said  Jonathan,  a  warning 
finger  raised. 

I  stood  listening. 

"I  don't  hear  anything,"  I  said. 


EVENINGS  ON   THE   FARM  65 

"  Sh— h ! "  he  repeated.   "  There ! " 

This  time,  indeed,  I  heard  faint  bird-notes. 

"Young  robins!"  He  sprang  up  and  made 
for  the  back  door  with  long  strides. 

I  peered  out  through  the  window  of  the 
orchard  room,  but  saw  only  the  reflection  of 
the  firelight  and  the  lamp.  Suddenly  I  heard 
Jonathan  whistle  and  I  ran  to  the  back  porch. 
Blackness  pressed  against  my  eyes. 

"Where  are  you?"  I  called  into  it. 

The  whistle  again,  quite  near  me,  appar 
ently  out  of  the  air. 

"Bring  a  lantern,"  came  a  whisper. 

I  got  it  and  came  back  and  down  the  steps 
to  the  path,  holding  up  my  light  and  peering 
about  in  search  of  the  voice. 

"Where  are  you?  I  can't  see  you  at  all." 

"  Right  here  —  look  —  here  —  up ! "  The 
voice  was  almost  over  my  head. 

I  searched  the  dark  masses  of  the  tree  — 
oh,  yes!  the  lantern  revealed  the  heel  of  a 
shoe  in  a  crotch,  and  above,  —  yes,  undoubt 
edly,  the  rest  of  Jonathan,  stretched  out  along 
a  limb. 

"Oh!  What  are  you  doing  up  there?" 

"Get  me   a  long   stick  —  hoe  —  clothes- 


66  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

pole  —  anything  I  can  poke  with.  Quick! 
The  cat 's  up  here.  I  can  hear  her,  but  I  can't 
see  her." 

I  found  the  rake  and  reached  it  up  to  him. 
From  the  dark  beyond  him  came  a  distressed 
mew. 

"Now  the  lantern.  Hang  it  on  the  teeth." 
He  drew  it  up  to  him,  then,  rake  in  one  hand 
and  lantern  in  the  other,  proceeded  to  squirm 
out  along  the  limb. 

"Now  I  see  her." 

I  saw  her  too  —  a  huddle  of  yellow, 
crouched  close. 

"I'll  have  her  in  a  minute.  She'll  either 
have  to  drop  or  be  caught." 

And  in  fact  this  distressing  dilemma  was 
already  becoming  plain  to  the  marauder  her 
self.  Her  mewings  grew  louder  and  more 
frequent.  A  few  more  contortions  brought 
the  climber  nearer  his  victim.  A  little  judi 
cious  urging  with  the  rake  and  she  was  within 
reach.  The  rake  came  down  to  me,  and  a 
long,  wild  mew  announced  that  Jonathan  had 
clutched. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  're  going  to  get  down," 
I  said,  mopping  the  rain-mist  out  of  my  eyes. 


EVENINGS  ON   THE  FARM  67 

"Watch  me,"  panted  the  contortionist. 

I  watched  a  curious  mass  descend  the 
tree,  the  lantern,  swinging  and  jerking,  fit 
fully  illumined  the  pair,  and  I  could  see,  now 
a  knee  and  an  ear,  now  a  hand  and  a  yellow 
furry  shape,  now  a  white  collar,  nose,  and 
chin.  There  was  a  last,  long,  scratching  slide. 
I  snatched  the  lantern,  and  Jonathan  stood 
beside  me,  holding  by  the  scruff  of  her  neck 
a  very  much  frazzled  yellow  cat.  We  returned 
to  the  porch  where  her  victims  were  —  one 
alive,  in  a  basket,  two  dead,  beside  it,  and 
Jonathan,  kneeling,  held  the  cat's  nose  close 
to  the  little  bodies  while  he  boxed  her  ears 
—  once,  twice;  remonstrant  mews  rose  wild, 
and  with  a  desperate  twist  the  culprit  backed 
out  under  his  arm  and  leaped  into  the  black 
ness. 

"  Don't  believe  she  '11  eat  young  robin  for  a 
day  or  two,"  said  Jonathan. 

"  Is  that  what  they  were?  Where  were 
they?  " 

"  Under  the  tree.  She  'd  knocked  them 
out." 

"  Could  you  put  this  one  back?  He  seems 
all  right  —  only  sort  of  naked  in  spots." 


68  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

'  We  '11  half  cover  the  basket  and  hang  it 
in  the  tree.  His  folks  '11  take  care  of  him." 

Next  morning  early  there  began  the  great 
est  to-do  among  the  robins  in  the  orchard. 
They  shrieked  their  comments  on  the  affair 
at  the  top  of  their  lungs.  They  screamed 
abusively  at  Jonathan  and  me  as  we  stood 
watching.  "They  say  we  did  it!"  said  Jona 
than.  "I  call  that  gratitude!" 

I  wish  I  could  record  that  from  that  even 
ing  the  cat  was  a  reformed  character.  An 
impression  had  indeed  been  made.  All  next 
day  she  stayed  under  the  porch,  two  glowing 
eyes  in  the  dark.  The  second  day  she  came 
out,  walking  indifferent  and  debonair,  as  cats 
do.  But  when  Jonathan  took  down  the  bas 
ket  from  the  tree  and  made  her  smell  of  it, 
she  flattened  her  ears  against  her  head  and 
shot  under  the  porch  again. 

But  lessons  grow  dim  and  temptation  is 
freshly  importunate.  It  was  not  two  weeks 
before  Jonathan  was  up  another  tree  on  the 
same  errand,  and  when  I  considered  the  num 
ber  of  nests  in  our  orchard,  and  the  number 
of  cats  —  none  of  them  really  our  cats  —  on 
the  place,  I  felt  that  the  position  of  overruling 


EVENINGS  ON  THE  FARM  69 

Providence  was  almost  more  than  we  could 
undertake,  if  we  hoped  to  do  anything  else. 

These  things  —  tinkering  of  latches  and 
chairs,  pump-mending,  rescue  work  in  the 
orchard  and  among  the  poultry  —  filled  our 
evenings  fairly  full.  Yet  these  are  only  sam 
ples,  and  not  particularly  representative 
samples  either.  They  were  the  sort  of  things 
that  happened  oftenest,  the  common  emer 
gencies  incidental  to  the  life.  But  there  were 
also  the  uncommon  emergencies,  each  oc 
curring  seldom  but  each  adding  its  own  touch 
of  variety  to  the  tale  of  our  evenings. 

For  instance,  there  was  the  time  of  the 
great  drought,  when  Jonathan,  coming  in 
from  a  tour  of  the  farm  at  dusk,  said,  "I've 
got  to  go  up  and  dig  out  the  spring-hole 
across  the  swamp.  Everything  else  is  dry, 
and  the  cattle  are  getting  crazy." 

"Can  I  help?"  I  asked,  not  without  re 
grets  for  our  books  and  our  evening  —  it  was 
a  black  night,  and  I  had  had  hopes. 

"Yes.   Come  and  hold  the  lantern." 

We  went.  The  spring-hole  had  been  trod 
den  by  the  poor,  eager  creatures  into  a  use- 


70  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

less  jelly  of  mud.  Jonathan  fell  to  work, 
while  I  held  the  lantern  high.  But  soon  it 
became  more  than  a  mere  matter  of  holding 
the  lantern.  There  was  a  crashing  in  the 
blackness  about  us  and  a  huge  horned  head 
emerged  behind  my  shoulder,  another  loomed 
beyond  Jonathan's  stooping  bulk. 

"Keep  'em  back,"  he  said.  "They'll  have 
it  all  trodden  up  again  —  Hi !  You !  Ge' 
back  'ere!"  There  is  as  special  a  lingo  for 
talking  to  cattle  as  there  is  for  talking  to 
babies.  I  used  it  as  well  as  I  could.  I  swung 
the  lantern  in  their  faces,  I  brandished  the 
hoe-handle  at  them,  I  jabbed  at  them  reck 
lessly.  They  snorted  and  backed  and  closed 
in  again,  —  crazy,  poor  things,  with  the 
smell  of  the  water.  It  was  an  evening's  battle 
for  us.  Jonathan  dug  and  dug,  and  then  laid 
rails,  and  the  precious  water  filled  in  slowly, 
grew  to  a  dark  pool,  and  the  thirsty  creatures 
panted  and  snuffed  in  the  dark  just  outside 
the  radius  of  the  hoe-handle,  until  at  last  we 
could  let  them  in.  I  had  forgotten  my  books, 
for  we  had  come  close  to  the  earth  and  the 
creatures  of  the  earth.  The  cows  were  our 
sisters  and  the  steers  our  brothers  that  night. 


EVENINGS  ON  THE   FARM  71 

Sometimes  the  emergency  was  in  the  barn 
—  a  broken  halter  and  trouble  among  the 
horses,  or  perhaps  a  new  calf.  Sometimes  a 
stray  creature,  —  cow  or  horse,  —  grazing 
along  the  roadside,  got  into  our  yard  and 
threatened  our  corn  and  squashes  and  my 
poor,  struggling  flower-beds.  Once  it  was  a 
break  in  the  wire  fence  around  Jonathan's 
muskmelon  patch  in  the  barn  meadow.  The 
cows  had  just  been  turned  in,  and  if  it  was 
n't  mended  that  evening  it  meant  no  melons 
that  season,  also  melon- tainted  cream  for  days. 

Once  or  twice  each  year  it  was  the  drain 
pipe  from  the  sink.  The  drain,  like  the  pump, 
was  an  innovation.  Our  ancestors  had  al 
ways  carried  out  whatever  they  could  n't  use 
or  burn,  and  dumped  it  on  the  far  edge  of  the 
orchard.  In  a  thinly  settled  community, 
there  is  much  to  be  said  for  this  method: 
you  know  just  where  you  are.  But  we  had  the 
drain,  and  occasionally  we  did  n't  know  just 
where  we  were. 

"Coffee  grounds,"  Jonathan  would  sug 
gest,  with  a  touch  of  sternness. 

"No,"  I  would  reply  firmlv;  "coffee 
grounds  are  always  burned." 


72  MORE  JONATHAN   PAPERS 

44  What  then?" 

" Don't  know.  I've  poked  and  poked." 

A  gleam  in  the  corner  of  Jonathan's  eye  — 
"What  with?" 

"Oh,  everything." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.   For  instance  what?" 

"Why  —  hair-pin  first,  of  course,  and  then 
scissors,  and  then  button-hook  —  you  need 
n't  smile.  Button-hooks  are  wonderful  for 
cleaning  out  pipes.  And  then  I  took  a  pail- 
handle  and  straightened  it  out — "  Jona 
than  was  laughing  by  this  time  —  "Well,  I 
have  to  use  what  I  have,  don't  I?  " 

"Yes,  of  course.  And  after  the  pail- 
handle?" 

"After  that — oh,  yes.  I  tried  your  clean 
ing-rod." 

"The  devil  you  did!" 

"Not  at  all.  It  was  n't  hurt  a  bit.  It  just 
wouldn't  go  down,  that's  all.  So  then  I 
thought  I'd  wait  for  you." 

"And  now  what  do  you  expect?" 

"I  expect  you  to  fix  it." 

Of  course,  after  that,  there  was  nothing  for 
Jonathan  to  do  but  fix  it.  Usually  it  did  not 
take  long.  Sometimes  it  did.  Once  it  took  a 


EVENINGS   ON   THE   FARM  73 

whole  evening,  and  required  the  services  of  a 
young  tree,  which  Jonathan  went  out  and  cut 
and  trimmed  and  forced  through  a  section  of 
the  pipe  which  he  had  taken  up  and  laid  out 
for  the  operation  on  the  kitchen  floor.  It  was 
a  warm  evening,  too,  and  friends  had  driven 
over  to  visit  us.  We  received  them  warmly  in 
the  kitchen.  We  explained  that  we  believed 
in  making  them  members  of  the  family,  and 
that  members  of  the  family  always  helped  in 
whatever  was  being  done.  So  they  helped. 
They  took  turns  gripping  the  pipe  while 
Jonathan  and  I  persuaded  the  young  tree 
through  it.  It  required  great  strength  and 
some  skill  because  it  was  necessary  to  make 
the  tree  and  the  pipe  perform  spirally  rota 
tory  movements  each  antagonistic  and  com 
plementary  to  the  other.  We  were  all  rather 
tired  and  very  hot  before  anything  began  to 
happen.  Then  it  happened  all  at  once:  the 
tree  burst  through  —  and  not  alone.  A  good 
deal  came  with  it.  The  kitchen  floor  was  a 
sight,  and  there  was  —  undoubtedly  there 
was  —  a  strong  smell  of  coffee.  Jonathan 
smiled.  Then  he  went  down  cellar  and  re 
stored  the  pipe  to  its  position,  while  the  rest 


74  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

of  us  cleared  up  the  kitchen, —  it's  astonish 
ing  what  a  little  job  like  that  can  make  a 
kitchen  look  like, — and  as  our  friends  started 
to  go  a  voice  from  beneath  us,  like  the  ghost 
in  "Hamlet,"  shouted,  "Hold  'em!  There's 
half  a  freezer  of  ice-cream  down  here  we  can 
finish."  Sure  enough  there  was!  And  then 
he  would  n't  have  to  pack  it  down.  We  had 
it  up.  We  looted  the  pantry  as  only  irrespon 
sible  adults  can  loot,  in  their  own  pantry, 
and  the  evening  ended  in  luxurious  ease. 
Some  time  in  the  black  of  the  night  our 
friends  left,  and  I  suppose  the  sound  of  their 
carriage-wheels  along  the  empty  road  set 
many  a  neighbor  wondering,  through  his 
sleep,  "Who's  sick  now?"  How  could  they 
know  it  was  only  a  plumbing  party? 

As  I  look  back  on  this  evening  it  seems  one 
of  the  pleasantest  of  the  year.  It  is  n't  so 
much  what  you  do,  of  course,  as  the  way  you 
feel  about  it,  that  makes  the  difference  be 
tween  pleasant  and  unpleasant.  Shall  we  say 
of  that  evening  that  we  meant  to  read  aloud? 
Or  that  we  meant  to  have  a  quiet  evening 
with  friends?  Not  at  all.  We  say,  with  all  the 
conviction  in  the  world,  that  we  meant,  on 


EVENINGS   ON  THE   FARM  75 

that  particular  evening,  to  have  a  plumbing 
party,  with  the  drain  as  the  piece  de  resis 
tance.  Toward  this  our  lives  had  been  yearn 
ing,  and  lo !  they  had  arrived ! 

Some  few  things,  however,  are  hard  to 
meet  in  that  spirit.  When  the  pigs  broke  out 
of  the  pen,  about  nine  o'clock,  and  Hiram 
was  away,  and  Mrs.  Hiram  needed  our  help 
to  get  them  in  —  there  was  no  use  in  pretend 
ing  that  we  meant  to  do  it.  Moreover,  the 
labor  of  rounding  up  pigs  is  one  of  mingled 
arduousness  and  delicacy.  Pigs  in  clover 
was  once  a  popular  game,  but  pigs  in  a  dark 
orchard  is  not  a  game  at  all,  and  it  will,  I  am 
firmly  convinced,  never  be  popular.  It  is,  I 
repeat,  not  a  game,  yet  probably  the  only 
way  to  keep  one's  temper  at  all  is  to  regard 
it,  for  the  time  being,  as  a  major  sport,  like 
football  and  deep-sea  fishing  and  mountain- 
climbing,  where  you  are  expected  to  take 
some  risks  and  not  think  too  much  about  re 
sults  as  such.  On  this  basis  it  has,  perhaps, 
its  own  rewards.  But  the  attitude  is  difficult 
to  maintain,  especially  late  at  night. 

On  that  particular  evening,  as  we  returned, 
breathless  and  worn,  to  the  house,  I  could 


76  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

not  refrain  from  saying,  with  some  edge,  "1 
never  wanted  to  keep  pigs  anyway." 

"Who  says  we  're  keeping  them?  "remarked 
Jonathan;  and  then  we  laughed  and  laughed. 

'You  need  n't  think  I'm  laughing  because 
you  said  anything  specially  funny,"  I  said. 
"  It's  only  because  I  'm  tired  enough  to  laugh 
at  anything." 

The  pump,  too,  tried  my  philosophy  now 
and  then.  One  evening  when  I  had  worn  my 
hands  to  the  bone  cutting  out  thick  leather 
washers  for  Jonathan  to  insert  somewhere  in 
the  circulatory  system  of  that  same  monster, 
I  finally  broke  out,  "Oh,  dear!  I  hate  the 
pump!  I  wanted  a  moonlight  walk!" 

"I'll  have  the  thing  together  now  in  a 
jiffy,"  said  Jonathan. 

"Jiffy!  There's  no  use  talking  about  jif 
fies  at  half-past  ten  at  night,"  I  snarled.  I 
was  determined  anyway  to  be  as  cross  as  I 
liked.  "Why  can't  we  find  a  really  simple 
way  of  living?  This  is  n't  simple.  It's  highly 
complex  and  very  difficult." 

"You  cut  those  washers  very  well,"  sug 
gested  Jonathan  soothingly,  but  I  was  not 
prepared  to  be  soothed. 


EVENINGS   ON   THE   FARM  77 

"It  was  hateful  work,  though.  Now,  look 
what  we've  done  this  evening!  We've  shut 
up  a  setting  hen,  and  housed  the  little  tur 
keys,  and  driven  that  cow  back  into  the  road, 
and  mended  a  window-shade  and  the  dog's 
chain,  and  now  we  've  fixed  the  pump  —  and 
it  won't  stay  fixed  at  that!" 

"Fair  evening's  work,"  murmured  Jona 
than  as  he  rapidly  assembled  the  pump. 

"Yes,  as  work.  But  all  I  mean  is  —  it  is  n't 
simple.  Farm  life  has  a  reputation  for  sim 
plicity  that  I  begin  to  think  is  overdone.  It 
does  n't  seem  to  me  that  my  evening  has  been 
any  more  simple  than  if  we  had  dressed  for 
dinner  and  gone  to  the  opera  or  played  bridge. 
In  fact,  at  this  distance,  that,  compared  with 
this,  has  the  simplicity  of  a  —  I  don't  know 
what!" 

"I  like  your  climaxes,"  said  Jonathan,  and 
we  both  laughed.  "There!  I'm  done.  Now 
suppose  we  go,  in  our  simple  way,  and  lock  up 
the  barns  and  chicken-houses." 

And  so  the  evenings  came  and  went,  each 
offering  a  prospect  of  fair  and  quiet  things  — 
books  and  firelight  and  moonlight  and  talk; 


78  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

many  in  retrospect  full  of  things  quite  differ 
ent — drains  and  latches  and  fledglings  and 
cows  and  pigs.  Many,  but  not  all.  For  the 
evenings  did  now  and  then  come  when  the 
pump  ceased  from  troubling  and  the  "crit 
ters"  were  at  rest.  Evenings  when  we  sat 
under  the  lamp  and  read,  when  we  walked 
and  walked  along  moonlit  roads  or  lay  on  the 
slopes  of  moon-washed  meadows.  It  was  on 
such  an  evening  that  we  faced  the  vagaries  of 
farm  life  and  searched  for  a  philosophy  to 
cover  them. 

"I'm  beginning  to  see  that  it  will  never  be 
any  better,"  I  said. 

"Probably  not,"  said  Jonathan,  talking 
around  his  pipe. 

:<You  seem  contented  enough  about  it." 

"lam." 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  contented,  but 
perhaps  I'm  resigned.  I  believe  it's  neces- 
sary." 

"Of  course  it's  necessary." 

Jonathan  often  has  the  air  of  having  known 
since  infancy  the  great  truths  about  life  that 
I  have  just  discovered.  I  overlooked  this,  and 
went  on,  "You  see,  we're  right  down  close  to 


EVENINGS   ON  THE  FARM  79 

the  earth  that  is  the  ultimate  basis  of  every 
thing,  and  all  the  caprices  of  things  touch  us 
immediately  and  we  have  to  make  immediate 
adjustments  to  them." 

"And  that  knocks  the  bottom  out  of  our 
evenings." 

"Now  if  we're  in  the  city,  playing  bridge, 
somebody  else  is  making  those  adjustments 
for  us.  We're  like  the  princess  with  seven 
teen  mattresses  between  her  and  the  pea." 

"She  felt  it,  though,"  said  Jonathan.  "It 
kept  her  awake." 

"I  know.  She  had  a  poor  night.  But  even 
she  would  hardly  have  maintained  that  she 
felt  it  as  she  would  have  done  if  the  mat 
tresses  had  n't  been  there." 

"True,"  said  Jonathan. 

"Farm  life  is  the  pea  without  the  mat 
tresses  —  "I  went  on. 

"Sounds  a  little  cheerless,"  said  Jonathan. 

"Well  —  of  course,  it  is  n't  really  cheerless 
at  all.  But  neither  is  it  easy.  It's  full  of  re 
morseless  demands  for  immediate  adjust 
ment." 

"That  was  the  way  the  princess  felt  about 
her  pea." 


80  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"The  princess  was  a  snippy  little  thing. 
But  after  all,  probably  her  life  was  full  of 
adjustments  of  other  sorts.  She  could  n't  call 
her  soul  her  own  a  minute,  I  suppose." 

"  Perhaps  that  was  why  she  ran  away," 
suggested  Jonathan. 

"  Of  course  it  was.  She  ran  away  to  find  the 
simple  life  and  did  n't  find  it." 

"No.  She  found  the  pea  —  even  with  all 
those  mattresses." 

"And  we've  run  away,  and  found  several 
peas,  and  fewer  mattresses,"  said  Jonathan. 

"Let's  not  get  confused  — " 

"I'm  not  confused,"  said  Jonathan. 

"Well,  I  shall  be  in  a  minute  if  I  don't  look 
out.  You  can't  follow  a  parallel  too  far. 
What  I  mean  is,  that  if  you  run  away  from 
one  kind  of  complexity  you  run  into  another 
kind." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"  I  'm  going  to  like  it  all,"  I  answered,  "  and 
make  believe  I  meant  to  do  it." 

After  that  we  were  silent  awhile.  Then  I 
tried  again.  "You  know  your  trick  of  waltz 
ing  with  a  glass  of  water  on  your  head?  " 

"Yes." 


EVENINGS   ON  THE   FARM  81 

"Well,  I  wonder  if  we  could  n't  do  that 
with  our  souls." 

"That  suggests  to  me  a  rather  curious 
picture,"  said  Jonathan. 

"Well  —  you  know  what  I  mean.  When 
you  do  that,  your  body  takes  up  all  the  jolts 
and  jiggles  before  they  get  to  the  top  of  your 
head,  so  the  glass  stays  quiet." 

"Well—" 

"Well,  I  don't  see  why  —  only,  of  course, 
our  souls  are  n't  really  anything  like  glasses 
of  water,  and  it  would  be  perfectly  detestable 
to  think  of  carrying  them  around  carefully 
like  that." 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  back  out  of  that 
figure  of  speech,"  suggested  Jonathan.  "Go 
back  to  your  princess.  Say,  'every  man  his 
own  mattress." 

"No.  Any  figure  is  wrong.  The  trouble 
with  all  of  them  is  that  as  soon  as  you  use 
one  it  begins  to  get  in  your  way,  and  say  all 
sorts  of  things  for  you  that  you  never  meant 
at  all.  And  then  if  you  notice  it,  it  bothers 
you,  and  if  you  don't  notice  it,  you  get  drawn 
into  crooked  thinking." 

"And  yet  you  can't  think  without  them." 


82  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"No,  you  can't  think  without  them." 

"Well  —  where  are  we,  anyway?"  he 
asked  placidly. 

"I  don't  know  at  all.  Only  I  feel  sure  that 
leading  the  simple  life  does  n't  depend  on  the 
things  you  do  it  with.  Feeding  your  own  cows 
and  pigs  and  using  pumps  and  candles  brings 
you  no  nearer  to  it  than  marketing  by  tele 
phone  and  using  city  water  supply  and  elec 
tric  lighting.  I  don't  know  what  does  bring 
you  nearer,  but  I'm  sure  it  must  be  some 
thing  inside  you." 

"That  sounds  rather  reasonable,"  said 
Jonathan;  "almost  scriptural  — " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  I  said. 


IV 

After  Frost 

IT  is  late  afternoon  in  mid-September.  I 
stand  in  my  garden  sniffing  the  raw  air,  and 
wondering,  as  always  at  this  season,  will 
there  be  frost  to-night  or  will  there  not?  Of 
course  if  I  were  a  woodchuck  or  a  muskrat,  or 
any  other  really  intelligent  creature,  I  should 
know  at  once  and  act  accordingly,  but  being 
only  a  stupid  human  being,  I  am  thrown 
back  on  conjecture,  assisted  by  the  ther 
mometer,  and  an  appeal  to  Jonathan. 

"Too  much  wind  for  frost,"  says  he. 

"Sure?  I'd  hate  to  lose  my  nasturtiums 
quite  so  early." 

"You  won't  lose  'em.  Look  at  the  ther 
mometer  if  you  don't  believe  me.  If  it's 
above  forty  you're  safe." 

I  look,  and  try  to  feel  reassured.  But  I  am 
not  quite  easy  in  my  mind  until  next  morning 
when,  running  out  before  breakfast,  I  make 
the  rounds  and  find  everything  untouched. 


84  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

But  a  few  days  later  the  alarm  comes  again. 
There  is  no  wind  this  time,  and,  what  is 
worse,  an  ominous  silence  falls  at  dusk  over 
the  orchard  and  meadow.  "Why  is  every 
thing  so  still?"  I  ask  myself.  "Oh,  of  course 
—  the  katydids  are  n't  talking  —  and  the 
crickets,  and  all  the  other  whirr-y  things. 
Ah!  That  means  business!  My  poor  gar 
den!" 

"Jonathan!"  I  call,  as  I  feel  rather  than 
see  his  shape  whirling  noiselessly  in  at  the 
big  gate  after  his  ride  up  from  the  station. 
"Help  me  cover  my  nasturtiums.  There'll 
be  frost  to-night." 

"Maybe,"  says  Jonathan's  voice. 

"Not  maybe  at  all  —  surely.  Listen  to  the 
katydids!" 

"You  mean,  listen  to  the  absence  of  katy 
dids." 

"Very  well.  The  point  is,  I  want  news 
papers." 

"No.  The  point  is,  I  am  to  bring  news 
papers." 

"Exactly." 

"And  tuck  up  your  nasturtiums  for  the 
night  in  your  peculiarly  ridiculous  fashion — " 


AFTER  FROST  85 

"I  know  it  looks  ridiculous,  but  really  it's 
sensible.  There  may  be  weeks  of  summer 
after  this." 

And  so  the  nasturtiums  are  tucked  up, 
cozily  hidden  under  the  big  layers  of  sheets, 
whose  corners  we  fasten  down  with  stones. 
To  be  sure,  the  garden  is  rather  a  funny 
sight,  with  these  pale  shapes  sprawling  over 
its  beds.  But  it  pays.  For  in  the  morning, 
though  over  in  the  vegetable  garden  the 
squash  leaves  and  lima  beans  are  blackened 
and  limp,  my  nasturtiums  are  still  pert  and 
crisp.  I  pull  off  the  papers,  wondering  what 
the  passers-by  have  thought,  and  lo !  my  gay 
garden,  good  for  perhaps  two  weeks  more ! 

But  a  day  arrives  when  even  newspaper 
coddling  is  of  no  avail.  Sometimes  it  is  in  late 
September,  sometimes  not  until  October,  but 
when  it  comes  there  is  no  resisting. 

The  sun  goes  down,  leaving  a  clear  sky 
paling  to  green  at  the  horizon.  A  still  cold 
falls  upon  the  world,  and  I  feel  that  it  is 
the  end.  Shears  in  hand,  I  cut  everything  I 
can  —  nasturtiums  down  to  the  ground,  — 
leaves,  buds,  and  all,  —  feathery  sprays  of 
cosmos,  asters  by  the  armful.  Those  last 


86  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

bouquets  that  I  bring  into  the  house  are  al 
ways  the  most  beautiful,  for  I  do  not  have  to 
save  buds  for  later  cutting.  There  will,  alas, 
be  no  later  cutting. 

So  I  fill  my  bowls  and  vases,  and  next 
morning  I  go  out,  well  knowing  what  I  shall 
see.  It  is  a  beautiful  sight,  too,  if  one  can 
forget  its  meaning.  The  whole  golden-green 
world  of  autumn  has  been  touched  with  sil 
ver.  In  the  low-lying  swamp  beyond  the 
orchard  it  is  almost  like  a  light  snowfall. 
The  meadows  rising  beyond  the  barns  are 
silvered  over  wherever  the  long  tree-shadows 
still  lie.  And  in  my  garden,  too,  where  the 
shadows  linger,  every  leaf  is  frosted,  but  as 
soon  as  the  sun  warms  them  through,  leaf  and 
twig  turn  dark  and  droop  to  the  ground.  It  is 
the  end. 

Except,  indeed,  for  my  brave  marigolds 
and  calendulas  and  little  button  asters.  It  is 
for  this  reason  that  I  have  given  them  space 
all  summer,  nipping  them  back  when  they 
tried  to  blossom  early,  for  they  seem  a  bit 
crude  compared  with  the  other  flowers.  But 
now  that  frost  is  here,  my  feelings  warm  to 
them.  I  cannot  criticize  their  color  and  tex- 


AFTER  FROST  87 

ture,  so  grateful  am  I  to  them  for  not  giving 
up.  And  when  last  night's  cuttings  have 
faded,  I  shall  be  very  glad  of  a  glowing  mass 
of  marigold  beside  my  fireplace,  and  of  the 
yellow  stars  of  calendula,  like  embodied 
sunshine,  on  my  dining-table. 

Well,  then,  the  frost  has  come!  And  after 
the  first  pang  of  realization,  I  find  that,  curi 
ously  enough,  the  worst  is  over.  Since  it  has 
come,  let  it  come !  And  now  —  hurrah  for  the 
garden  house-cleaning!  The  garden  is  dead 

—  the  garden  of  yesterday !    Long  live  the 
garden  —  the    garden    of    to-morrow !     For 
suddenly  my  mind  has  leaped  ahead  to  spring. 

I  can  hardly  wait  for  breakfast  to  be  over, 
before  I  am  out  in  working  clothes,  pulling 
up  things  —  not  weeds  now,  but  flowers,  or 
what  were  flowers.  Nasturtiums,  asters,  cos 
mos,  snapdragon,  stock,  late-blooming  corn 
flowers  —  up  they  all  come,  all  the  annuals, 
and  the  biennials  that  have  had  their  season. 
I  fling  them  together  in  piles,  and  soon  have 
small  haystacks  all  along  my  grass  paths,  and 

—  there  I  am !  Down  again  to  the  good  brown 
earth ! 

It  is  with  positive  satisfaction  that  I  stand 


88  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

and  survey  my  beds,  great  bare  patches  of 
earth,  glorified  here  and  there  by  low  clumps 
of  calendula  and  great  bushes  of  marigold. 
Now,  then!  I  can  do  anything!  I  can  dig, 
and  fertilize,  and  transplant.  Best  of  all,  I 
can  plan  and  plan !  The  crisp  wind  stings  my 
cheeks,  but  as  I  work  I  feel  the  sun  hot  on  the 
back  of  my  neck.  I  get  the  smell  of  the  earth 
as  I  turn  it  over,  mingled  with  the  pungent 
tang  of  marigold  blossoms,  very  pleasant  out 
of  doors,  though  almost  too  strong  for  the 
house  except  near  a  fireplace.  I  believe  the 
most  characteristic  fall  odors  are  to  me  this 
of  marigold,  mingled  with  the  fragrance  of 
apples  piled  in  the  orchard,  the  good  smell 
of  earth  newly  turned  up,  and  the  flavor  of 
burning  leaves,  borne  now  and  then  on  the 
wind,  from  the  outdoor  house-cleaning  of  the 
world. 

There  is  perhaps  no  season  of  all  the  gar 
den  year  that  brings  more  real  delight  to  the 
gardener,  no  time  so  stimulating  to  the  im 
agination.  This  year  in  the  garden  has  been 
good,  but  next  year  shall  be  better.  All  the 
failures,  or  near-failures,  shall  of  course  be 
turned  into  successes,  and  the  successes  shall 


AFTER  FROST  89 

be  bettered.  Last  year  there  were  not  quite 
enough  hollyhocks,  but  next  year  there  shall 
be  such  glories!  There  are  seedlings  that  I 
have  been  saving,  over  on  the  edge  of  the 
phlox.  I  dash  across  to  look  them  up  —  yes, 
here  they  are,  splendid  little  fellows,  leaves 
only  a  bit  crumpled  by  the  frost.  I  dig  them 
up  carefully,  keeping  earth  packed  about 
their  roots,  and  one  by  one  I  convey  them 
across  and  set  them  out  in  a  beautiful  row 
where  I  want  them  to  grow  next  year.  Their 
place  is  beside  the  old  stone-flagged  path,  and 
I  picture  them  rising  tall  against  the  side  of 
the  woodshed,  whose  barrenness  I  have  be 
sides  more  than  half  covered  with  honey 
suckle. 

Then,  there  are  my  foxgloves.  Some  of 
them  I  have  already  transplanted,  but  not 
all.  There  is  a  little  corner  full  of  stocky 
yearlings  that  I  must  change  now.  And  that 
same  corner  can  be  used  for  poppies.  I  have 
kept  seeds  of  this  year's  poppies  —  funny 
little  brown  pepper-shakers,  with  tiny  holes 
at  the  end  through  which  I  shake  out  the  fine 
seed  dust.  Doubtless  they  would  attend  to 
all  this  without  my  help,  but  I  like  to  be  sure 


90  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

that  even  my  self-seeding  annuals  come  up 
where  I  most  want  them. 

Biennials,  like  the  foxglove  and  canter 
bury  bells,  are  of  course,  the  difficult  chil 
dren  of  the  garden,  because  you  have  to  plan 
not  only  for  next  year  but  for  the  year  after. 
Next  year's  bloom  is  secured  —  unless  they 
winter-kill  —  in  this  year's  young  plants, 
growing  since  spring,  or  even  since  the  fall 
before.  These  I  transplant  for  next  summer's 
beauty.  But  for  the  year  after  I  like  to  take 
double  precautions.  Already  I  have  tiny 
seedlings,  started  since  August,  but  besides 
these  I  sow  seed,  too  late  to  start  before 
spring.  For  a  severe  winter  may  do  havoc, 
and  I  shall  then  need  the  early  start  given  by 
fall  sowing. 

As  I  work  on,  I  discover  all  sorts  of  treas 
ures  —  young  plants,  seedlings  from  all  the 
big-folk  of  my  garden.  Young  larkspurs 
surround  the  bushy  parent  clumps,  and 
the  ground  near  the  forget-me-nots  is  fairly 
carpeted  with  little  new  ones.  I  have  found 
that,  though  the  old  forget-me-nots  will  live 
through,  it  pays  to  pull  out  the  most  ragged 
of  them  and  trust  to  the  youngsters  to  fill 


AFTER  FROST  91 

their  places.  These,  and  English  daisies,  I  let 
grow  together  about  as  they  will.  They  are 
pretty  together,  with  their  mingling  of  pink, 
white,  and  blue,  they  never  run  out,  and  all  I 
need  is  to  keep  them  from  spreading  too  far, 
or  from  crowding  each  other  too  much. 

When  my  back  aches  from  this  kind  of 
sorting  and  shifting,  I  straighten  up  and  look 
about  me  again.  Ah!  The  phlox!  Time  now 
to  attend  to  that! 

My  white  phlox  is  really  the  most  dis 
tinguished  thing  in  my  garden.  I  have  pink 
and  lavender,  too,  but  any  one  can  have  pink 
and  lavender  by  ordering  them  from  a  flor 
ist.  They  can  have  white,  too,  but  not  my 
white.  For  mine  never  saw  a  florist;  it  is  an 
inheritance. 

Sixty  or  seventy  years  ago  there  was  a 
beautiful  little  garden  north  of  the  old  house 
tended  and  loved  by  a  beautiful  lady.  The 
lady  died,  and  the  garden  did  not  long  out 
live  her.  Its  place  was  taken  by  a  crab-apple 
orchard,  which  flourished,  bore  blossom  and 
fruit,  until  in  its  turn  it  grew  old,  while  the 
garden  had  faded  to  a  dim  tradition.  But  one 
day  in  August,  a  few  years  ago,  I  discovered 


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under  the  shade  of  an  old  crab  tree,  two  slen 
der  sprays  of  white  phlox,  trying  to  blossom. 
In  memory  of  that  old  garden  and  its  lady,  I 
took  them  up  and  cherished  them.  And  the 
miracle  of  life  was  again  made  manifest. 
For  from  those  two  little  half-starved  roots 
has  come  the  most  splendid  part  of  my  gar 
den.  All  summer  it  makes  a  thick  green  wall 
on  the  garden's  edge,  beside  the  flagged  path. 
In  the  other  beds  it  rises  in  luxuriant  masses, 
giving  background  and  body  with  its  won 
derful  deep  green  foliage,  which  is  greener 
and  thicker  than  any  other  phlox  I  know. 
And  when  its  season  to  bloom  arrives  —  a 
long  month,  from  early  August  to  mid-Sep 
tember  —  it  is  a  glory  of  whiteness,  the  tallest 
sprays  on  a  level  with  my  eyes,  the  shortest 
shoulder  high,  except  when  rain  weighs  down 
the  heavy  heads  and  they  lean  across  the 
paths  barring  my  passage  with  their  fragrant 
wetness. 

Here  and  there  I  have  let  the  pink  and 
lavender  phlox  come  in,  for  they  begin  to 
bloom  two  weeks  earlier,  when  the  garden 
needs  color.  But  always  my  white  must 
dominate.  And  it  does.  Most  wonderful  of 


AFTER  FROST  93 

all  is  it  on  moonlight  nights  of  late  August, 
when  it  broods  over  the  garden  like  a  white 
cloud,  and  the  night  moths  come  crowding 
to  its  fragrant  feast,  with  their  intermittent 
burring  of  furry  wings. 

Ah,  well !  the  phlox  has  passed  now,  and  its 
trim  green  leaves  are  brown  and  crackly.  I 
can  do  what  I  like  with  it  after  this.  So  when 
my  other  transplanting  grows  tiresome,  I  fall 
upon  my  phlox.  Every  year  some  of  it  needs 
thinning,  so  quickly  does  it  spread.  I  take  the 
spading-f  ork,  and,  with  what  seems  like  utter 
ruthlessness,  I  pry  out  from  the  thickest  cen 
ters  enough  good  roots  to  give  the  rest  breath 
ing  and  growing  space.  Along  the  path  edges 
I  always  have  to  cut  out  encroaching  roots 
each  year,  or  else  soon  there  would  be  no 
path.  But  all  that  I  take  out  is  precious, 
either  to  give  to  friends  for  their  gardens,  or 
to  enlarge  the  edges  of  my  own.  For  this 
phlox  needs  almost  no  care,  and  will  fight 
grass  and  weeds  for  itself. 

There  are  phlox  seedlings,  too,  all  over  the 
garden,  but  I  have  no  way  of  telling  what  color 
they  are,  though  usually  I  can  detect  the 
white  by  its  foliage.  I  take  them  up  and  set 


94  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

them  out  near  the  main  phlox  masses,  and 
wait  for  the  next  season's  blossoming  before  I 
give  them  their  final  place. 

This  is  the  time  of  year,  too,  when  I  give 
some  attention  to  the  rocks  in  my  garden. 
Of  course,  in  order  to  have  a  garden  at  all, 
it  was  necessary  to  take  out  enough  rock 
to  build  quite  a  respectable  stone  wall.  But 
that  was  not  the  end.  There  never  will  be  an 
end.  A  Connecticut  garden  grows  rocks  like 
weeds,  and  one  must  expect  to  keep  on  taking 
them  out  each  fall.  The  rest  of  the  year  I  try 
to  ignore  them,  but  after  frost  I  like  to  make 
a  fresh  raid,  and  get  rid  of  another  wheel 
barrow  load  or  so.  And  I  always  notice  that 
for  one  barrow  load  of  stones  that  go  out,  it 
takes  at  least  two  barrow  loads  of  earth  to 
fill  in.  Thus  an  excellent  circulation  is  main 
tained,  and  the  garden  does  not  stagnate. 
Moreover,  I  take  great  pleasure  in  showing 
my  friends  —  especially  friends  from  the 
more  earthy  sections  of  New  York  and  far 
ther  west  —  the  piles  of  rock  and  the  parts  of 
certain  stone  walls  about  the  place  that  have 
been  literally  made  out  of  the  cullings  of  my 
garden.  They  never  believe  me. 


AFTER  FROST  95 

As  I  am  thus  occupied,  —  digging,  plant 
ing,  thinning,  sowing,  —  I  find  it  one  of  the 
happiest  seasons  of  the  year.  It  is  partly  the 
stimulus  of  the  autumn  air,  partly  the  pleas 
ure  of  getting  at  the  ground.  I  think  there 
are  some  of  us,  city  folk  though  we  be,  who 
must  have  the  giant  Antaeus  for  ancestor.  We 
still  need  to  get  in  close  touch  with  the  earth 
now  and  then.  Children  have  a  true  instinct 
with  their  love  of  barefoot  play  in  the  dirt, 
and  there  are  grown  folks  who  still  love  it  — 
but  we  call  it  gardening.  The  sight  and  the 
feel  and  the  smell  of  my  brown  garden  beds 
gives  me  a  pleasure  that  is  very  deep  and 
probably  very  primitive. 

But  there  is  another  source  of  pleasure  in 
my  fall  gardening  —  a  pleasure  not  of  the 
senses  but  of  the  imagination. 

For  as  I  do  my  work  my  fancy  is  active. 
As  I  transplant  my  young  hollyhocks,  I  see 
them,  not  little  round-leaved  bunches  in  my 
hand,  but  tall  and  stately,  aflare  with  colors 
—  yellows,  whites,  pinks.  As  I  dig  about  my 
larkspur  and  stake  out  its  seedlings,  they 
spire  above  me  in  heavenly  blues.  As  I  ar 
range  the  clumps  of  coarse-leaved  young 


96  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

foxgloves,  I  seem  to  see  their  rich  tower-like 
clusters  of  old-pink  bells  bending  always  a 
little  towards  the  southeast,  where  most  sun 
comes  from.  As  I  thin  my  forget-me-not  I 
see  it  —  in  my  mind's  eye  —  in  a  blue  mist 
of  spring  bloom.  Thus,  a  garden  rises  in  my 
fancy,  a  garden  where  neither  beetle,  borer, 
nor  cutworm  doth  corrupt,  and  where  the 
mole  doth  not  break  in  or  steal,  where  gentle 
rain  and  blessed  sun  come  as  they  are  needed, 
where  all  the  flowers  bloom  unceasingly  in 
colors  of  heavenly  light  —  a  garden  such  as 
never  yet  existed  nor  ever  shall,  till  the  tales 
of  fairyland  come  true.  I  shall  never  see  that 
garden,  yet  every  year  it  blooms  for  me 
afresh  —  after  frost. 


The  Joys  of  Garden  Stewardship 

I  SOMETIMES  think  I  am  coining  to  classify 
my  friends  according  to  the  way  they  act 
when  I  talk  about  my  garden.  On  this  basis, 
there  are  three  sorts  of  people. 

First  there  are  those  who  are  obviously  not 
interested.  Such  as  these  feel  no  answering 
thrill,  even  at  the  sight  of  a  florist's  spring 
catalogue.  A  weed  inspires  in  them  no  desire 
to  pull  it.  They  may,  however,  be  really  nice 
people  if  they  are  still  young;  for,  except  by 
special  grace,  no  one  under  thirty  need  be 
expected  to  care  about  gardens  —  it  is  a  ma 
ture  taste.  But  in  the  mean  time  I  turn  our 
talk  in  other  channels. 

Then  there  are  the  people  who,  when  I 
approach  the  subject,  brighten  up,  look  in 
telligent,  even  eager,  but  in  a  moment  make 
it  clear  that  what  they  are  eager  for  is  a 
chance  to  talk  about  their  own  gardens. 
Mine  is  merely  the  stepping-stone,  the  bridge, 


98  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

the  handle.  This  is  better  than  indifference, 
yet  it  is  sometimes  trying.  One  of  my  dearest 
friends  thus  tests  my  love  now  and  then  when 
she  walks  in  my  garden. 

"Are  n't  those  peonies  lovely?"  I  suggest. 

"Yes,"  dreamily;  "you  know  I  can't  have 
that  shade  in  my  garden  because  — "  and  she 
trails  off  into  a  disquisition  that  I  could,  just 
at  that  moment,  do  without. 

"Look  at  the  height  of  that  larkspur!"  I  say. 

"Yes  —  but,  you  know,  it  would  n't  do  for 
me  to  have  larkspur  when  I  go  away  so  early. 
What  I  need  is  things  for  April  and  May." 

"Well,  I  am  not  trying  to  sell  you  any,"  I 
am  sometimes  goaded  into  protesting.  "I 
only  wanted  you  to  say  they  are  pretty  — 
pretty  right  here  in  my  garden." 

'Yes  —  yes  —  of  course  they  are  pretty 
—  they  're  lovely  —  you  have  a  lovely  gar 
den,  you  know."  She  pulls  herself  up  to  give 
this  tribute,  but  soon  her  eyes  get  the  far 
away  look  in  them  again,  and  she  is  mur 
muring,  "Oh,  I  must  write  Edward  to  see 
about  that  hedge.  Tell  me,  my  dear,  if  you 
had  a  brick  wall,  would  you  have  vines  on  it 
or  wall-fruit?" 


JOYS  OF  GARDEN  STEWARDSHIP      99 

It  is  of  no  use.  I  cannot  hold  her  long.  I 
sometimes  think  she  was  nicer  when  she  had 
no  garden  of  her  own.  Perhaps  she  thinks  I 
was  nicer  when  I  had  none. 

But  there  is  another  kind  of  garden  man 
ners  —  a  kind  that  subtly  soothes,  cheers, 
perhaps  inebriates.  It  is  the  manner  of  the 
friend  who  may,  indeed,  have  a  garden,  but 
who  looks  at  mine  with  the  eye  of  adoption, 
temporarily  at  least.  She  walks  down  its 
paths,  singling  out  this  or  that  for  notice. 
She  suggests,  she  even  criticizes,  tenderly,  as 
one  who  tells  you  an  "even  more  becoming 
way"  to  arrange  your  little  daughter's  hair. 
She  offers  you  roots  and  seeds  and  seedlings 
from  her  garden,  and  —  last  touch  of  flattery 
—  she  begs  seeds  and  seedlings  from  yours. 

For  garden  purposes,  give  me  the  man 
ners  of  this  third  class.  And,  indeed,  not  for 
garden  purposes  alone.  They  are  useful  as 
applied  to  many  things  —  children,  particu 
larly,  and  houses. 

Undoubtedly  the  demand  that  I  make 
upon  my  friends  is  a  form  of  vanity,  yet  I 
cannot  seem  to  feel  ashamed  of  it.  I  admit  at 
once  that  not  the  least  part  of  my  pleasure  in 


100  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

my  flowers  is  the  attention  they  get  from 
others.  Moreover,  it  is  not  only  from  friends 
that  I  seek  this,  but  from  every  passer-by 
along  my  country  road.  There  are  gardens 
and  gardens.  Some,  set  about  with  hedges 
tall  and  thick,  offer  the  delights  of  exclusive- 
ness  and  solitude.  But  exclusiveness  and  sol 
itude  are  easily  had  on  a  Connecticut  farm, 
and  my  garden  will  none  of  them;  it  flings 
forth  its  appeal  to  every  wayfarer.  And  I 
like  it.  I  like  my  garden  to  "get  notice."  As 
people  drive  by  I  hope  they  enjoy  my  phlox. 
I  furtively  glance  to  see  if  they  have  an  eye 
for  the  foxglove.  I  wonder  if  the  calendulas 
are  so  tall  that  they  hide  the  asters.  And  if, 
as  I  bend  over  my  weeding,  an  automobile 
whirling  past  lets  fly  an  appreciative  phrase 
—  "lovely  flowers — "  "wonderful  yellow 
of — "  "garden  there," —  my  ears  are  quick 
to  receive  it  and  I  forgive  the  eddies  of  gaso 
lene  and  dust  that  are  also  left  by  the  van 
ishing  visitant. 

About  few  things  can  one  be  so  brazen  in 
one's  enjoyment  of  recognition.  One's  house, 
one's  clothes,  one's  work,  one's  children,  all 
these  demand  a  certain  modesty  of  de- 


JOYS  OF  GARDEN  STEWARDSHIP    101 

meaner,  however  the  inner  spirit  may  puff. 
Not  so  one's  garden.  I  fancy  this  is  because, 
while  I  have  a  strong  sense  of  ownership  in  it, 
I  also  have  a  strong  sense  of  stewardship. 
As  owner  I  must  be  modest,  but  as  steward  I 
may  admire  as  openly  as  I  will.  Did  I  make 
my  phlox?  Did  I  fashion  my  asters?  Am  I  the 
artificer  of  my  fringed  larkspur?  Nay,  truly, 
I  am  but  their  caretaker,  and  may  glory  in 
them  as  well  as  another,  only  with  the  added 
touch  of  joy  that  I,  even  I,  have  given  them 
their  opportunity.  Like  Paul  I  plant,  like 
Apollos  I  water,  but  before  the  power  that 
giveth  the  increase  I  stand  back  and  wonder. 
But  it  is  not  alone  the  results  of  my  stew 
ardship  that  give  me  joy.  Its  very  processes 
are  good.  Delight  in  the  earth  is  a  primitive 
instinct.  Digging  is  naturally  pleasant,  hoe 
ing  is  pleasant,  raking  is  pleasant,  and  then 
there  is  the  weeding.  For  I  am  not  the  only 
one  who  sows  seeds  in  my  garden.  One  of  my 
friends  remarked  cheerfully  that  he  had 
planted  twenty-seven  different  vegetables  in 
his  garden,  and  the  Lord  had  planted  two 
hundred  and  twenty-seven  other  kinds  of 
things. 


102  MORE  .JONATHAN  PAPERS 

This  is  where  the  weeding  comes  in.  Now  a 
good  deal  has  been  said  about  the  labor  of 
weeding,  but  little  about  the  gratifications  of 
weeding.  I  don't  mean  weeding  with  a  hoe. 
I  mean  yanking  up,  with  movements  suited 
to  the  occasion,  each  individual  growing 
thing  that  does  n't  belong.  Surely  I  am  not 
the  only  one  to  have  felt  the  pleasure  of  this. 
They  come  up  so  nicely,  and  leave  such  soft 
earth  behind!  And  intellect  is  needed,  too, 
for  each  weed  demands  its  own  way  of  hand 
ling:  the  adherent  plantain  needing  a  slow, 
firm,  drawing  motion,  but  very  satisfactory 
when  it  comes;  the  evasive  clover  requiring 
that  all  its  sprawling  runners  shall  be  gath 
ered  up  in  one  gentle,  tactful  pull;  the  tender 
shepherd's  purse  coming  easily  on  a  straight 
twitch;  the  tough  ragweed  that  yields  to  al 
most  any  kind  of  jerk.  Even  witch-grass,  the 
bane  of  the  farmer,  has  its  rewarding  side, 
when  one  really  does  get  out  its  handful  of 
wicked-looking,  crawly,  white  tubers. 

Weeding  is  most  fun  when  the  weeds  are 
not  too  small.  Yes,  from  the  aspect  of  a  sport 
there  is  something  to  be  said  for  letting  weeds 
grow.  Pulling  out  little  tender  ones  is  poor 


JOYS  OF  GARDEN  STEWARDSHIP    103 

work  compared  with  the  satisfaction  of  haul 
ing  up  a  spreading  treelet  of  ragweed  or  a 
far-flaunting  wild  buckwheat.  You  seem  to 
get  so  much  for  your  effort,  and  it  stirs  up 
the  ground  so,  and  no  other  weeds  have  grown 
under  the  shade  of  the  big  one,  so  its  de 
parture  leaves  a  good  bit  of  empty  brown 
earth. 

Surely,  weeding  is  good  fun.  If  faults  could 
be  yanked  out  of  children  in  the  same  enter 
taining  way,  the  orphan  asylums  would  soon 
be  emptied  through  the  craze  for  adoption  as 
a  major  sport. 

One  of  the  pleasantest  mornings  of  my  life 
was  spent  weeding,  in  the  rain,  a  long-ne 
glected  corner  of  my  garden,  while  a  young 
friend  stood  around  the  edges  and  explained 
the  current  political  situation  to  me,  and 
carted  away  armfuls  of  green  stuff  as  I 
handed  them  out  to  him.  The  rain  drizzled, 
and  the  air  was  fragrant  with  the  smell  of 
wet  earth  and  bruised  stems.  Ideally,  of 
course,  weeds  should  never  reach  this  state 
of  sportive  rankness.  But  most  of  my  friends 
admit,  under  pressure,  that  there  are  corners 
where  such  things  do  happen. 


104  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

Naturally,  all  this  is  assuming  that  one  is 
one's  own  gardener.  There  may  be  pleasure 
in  having  a  garden  kept  up  by  a  real  gar 
dener,  but  that  always  seems  to  me  a  little 
like  having  a  doll  and  letting  somebody  else 
dress  and  undress  it.  My  garden  must  never 
grow  so  big  that  I  cannot  take  care  of  it  — 
and  neglect  it  —  myself. 

In  saying  this,  however,  I  don't  count 
rocks.  When  it  comes  to  rocks,  I  call  in  Jona 
than.  And  it  often  comes  to  rocks. 

For  mine  is  a  Connecticut  garden.  Now 
in  the  beginning  Connecticut  was  composed 
entirely  of  rocks.  Then  the  little  earth 
gnomes,  fearing  that  no  one  would  ever  come 
there  to  give  them  sport,  sprinkled  a  little 
earth  amongst  the  rocks,  partly  covered 
some,  wholly  covered  others,  and  then  hid  to 
see  what  the  gardeners  would  do  about  it. 
And  ever  since  the  gardeners  have  been  pa 
tiently,  or  impatiently,  tucking  in  their  seeds 
and  plants  in  the  thimblefuls  of  earth  left  by 
the  gnomes.  They  have  been  picking  out  the 
rocks,  or  blowing  them  up,  or  burying  them, 
or  working  around  them;  and  every  winter 
the  little  gnomes  gather  and  push  up  a  new 


JOYS  OF  GARDEN  STEWARDSHIP    105 

lot  from  the  dark  storehouses  of  the  under 
world.  In  the  spring  the  gardeners  begin 
again,  and  the  little  gnomes  hold  their  sides 
with  still  laughter  to  watch  the  work  go  on. 

"Rocks?"  my  friends  say.  "Do  you  mind 
the  rocks?  But  they  are  a  special  beauty! 
Why,  I  have  a  rock  in  my  garden  that  I  have 
treated—" 

"Very  well,"  I  interrupt  rudely.  "A  rock  is 
all  very  well.  If  I  had  a  rock  in  my  garden  I 
could  treat  it,  too.  But  how  about  a  garden 
that  is  all  rocks?" 

"Oh  —  why  —  choose  another  spot." 

Whereupon  I  reply,  "You  don't  know 
Connecticut." 

Ever  since  I  began  having  a  garden  I  have 
had  my  troubles  with  the  rocks,  but  the 
worst  time  came  when,  in  a  mood  of  enthusi 
astic  and  absolutely  unintelligent  optimism, 
I  decided  to  have  a  bit  of  smooth  grass  in  the 
middle  of  my  garden.  I  wanted  it  very  much. 
The  place  was  too  restless;  you  could  n't  sit 
down  anywhere.  I  felt  that  I  had  to  have  a 
clear  green  spot  where  I  could  take  a  chair 
and  a  book.  I  selected  the  spot,  marked  it  off 
with  string,  and  began  to  loosen  up  the  earth 


106  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

for  a  late  summer  planting  of  grass  seed. 
Calendulas  and  poppies  and  cornflowers  had 
bloomed  there  before,  self-sown  and  able  to 
look  out  for  themselves,  so  I  had  never  in 
vestigated  the  depths  of  the  bed  to  see  what 
the  little  gnomes  had  prepared  for  me.  Now 
I  found  out.  The  spading-fork  gave  a  famil 
iar  dull  clink  as  it  struck  rock.  I  felt  about 
for  the  edge;  it  was  a  big  one.  I  got  the  crow 
bar  and  dropped  it,  in  testing  prods;  it  was  a 
very  big  one,  and  only  four  inches  below  the 
surface.  Grass  would  never  grow  there  in  a 
dry  season.  I  moved  to  another  part.  An 
other  rock,  big  too!  I  prodded  all  over  the 
allotted  space,  and  found  six  big  fellows  lurk 
ing  just  below  the  top  of  the  soil.  Evidently 
it  was  a  case  for  calling  in  Jonathan. 

He  came,  grumbling  a  little,  as  a  man 
should,  but  very  efficient,  armed  with  two 
crowbars  and  equipped  with  a  natural  gen 
ius  for  manipulating  rocks.  He  made  a  few 
well-placed  remarks  about  queer  people  who 
choose  to  have  grass  where  flowers  would 
grow,  and  flowers  where  grass  would  grow, 
also  about  Connecticut  being  intended  for  a 
quarry  and  not  for  a  garden  anyhow.  But  all 


JOYS  OF  GARDEN  STEWARDSHIP    107 

this  was  only  the  necessary  accompaniment  of 
the  crowbar-play.  Soon,  under  the  insistent 
and  canny  urgency  of  the  bars,  a  big  rock 
began  to  heave  its  shoulder  into  sight  above 
the  soil.  I  hovered  about,  chucking  in  stones 
and  earth  underneath,  placing  little  rocks 
under  the  bar  for  fulcrums,  pulling  them  out 
again  when  they  were  no  longer  needed, 
standing  guard  over  the  flowers  in  the  rest  of 
the  garden,  with  repeated  warnings.  "Please, 
Jonathan,  don't  step  back  any  farther;  you'll 
trample  the  forget-me-nots!"  "Could  you 
manage  to  roll  this  fellow  out  along  that 
path  and  not  across  the  mangled  bodies  of 
the  marigolds?  "  Jonathan  grumbled  a  little 
about  being  expected  to  pick  a  half-ton  peb 
ble  out  of  the  garden  with  his  fingers,  or  lead 
it  out  with  a  string. 

"Oh,  well,  of  course,  if  you  can't  do  it  I'll 
have  to  let  the  marigolds  go  this  year.  But 
you  do  such  wonderful  things  with  a  crowbar, 
I  thought  you  could  probably  just  guide  it  a 
little."  And  Jonathan  responds  nobly  to  the 
flattery  of  this  remark,  and  does  indeed  guide 
the  huge  thing,  eases  it  along  the  narrow 
path,  grazes  the  marigolds  but  leaves  them 


108  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

unhurt,  until  at  last,  with  a  careful  arrange 
ment  of  stone  fulcrums  and  a  skillful  twist  of 
the  bars,  the  great  rock  makes  its  last  re 
sponse  and  lunges  heavily  past  the  last  flower 
bed  on  to  the  grass  beyond. 

When  the  work  was  done,  the  edge  of  the 
garden  looked  like  Stonehenge,  and  the  spot 
where  my  grass  was  to  be  was  nothing  but 
a  yawning  pit,  crying  to  be  filled.  We  sur 
veyed  it  with  interest.  "  If  we  had  a  water- 
supply,  I  wouldn't  make  a  grass-plot,"  I 
said;  "  I'd  make  a  swimming-pool.  It's  deep 
enough." 

.  "And  sit  in  the  middle  with  your  book?" 
asked  Jonathan. 

But  there  was  no  water-supply,  so  we  filled 
it  in  with  earth.  Thirty  wheelbarrow  loads 
went  in  where  those  rocks  came  out.  And 
the  little  gnomes  perched  on  Stonehenge  and 
jeered  the  while.  I  photographed  it,  and  the 
rocks  "  took  "  well,  but  as  regards  the  gnomes, 
the  film  was  underexposed. 

Thus  the  grass  seed  was  planted.  And  we 
reminded  each  other  of  the  version  of  "Amer 
ica"  once  given,  with  unconscious  inspira 
tion,  by  a  little  friend  of  ours:  — 


JOYS  OF  GARDEN  STEWARDSHIP    109 

"  Land  where  our  father  died, 
Land  where  the  pilgrims  pried." 

It  seemed  to  us  to  suit  the  adventure. 

As  I  have  said,  I  love  to  have  my  friends 
love  my  garden.  But  there  is  one  thing  about 
it  that  I  find  does  not  always  appeal  to  them 
pleasantly,  and  that  is  its  color-schemes. 
Yet  this  is  not  my  doing.  For  in  nothing  do 
I  feel  more  keenly  the  fact  of  my  mere  stew 
ardship  than  in  this  matter  of  color-scheme. 

I  set  out  with  a  very  rigid  one.  I  was 
quite  decided  in  my  own  mind  that  what 
I  wanted  was  white  and  salmon-pink  and 
lavender.  Asters,  phlox,  sweet  peas,  holly 
hocks,  all  were  to  bend  themselves  to  my 
rules.  At  first  affairs  went  very  well.  White 
was  easy.  White  phlox  I  had,  and  have  —  an 
inheritance  —  which  from  a  few  roots  is 
spreading  and  spreading  in  waves  of  white 
ness  that  grow  more  luxuriant  every  year. 
But  I  bought  roots  of  salmon-pink  and  lav 
ender,  and  then  my  troubles  commenced. 
About  the  third  season  strange  things  began 
to  happen.  The  pink  phlox  had  the  strength 
of  ten.  It  spread  amazingly;  but  it  forgot  all 
about  my  rules.  It  degenerated,  some  of  it  — 


110  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

reverted  toward  that  magenta  shade  that 
nature  seems  so  naturally  to  adore  in  the 
vegetable  world.  To  my  horror  I  found  my 
garden  blossoming  into  magenta  pink,  blue 
pink,  crimson,  cardinal  —  all  the  colors  I  had 
determined  not  under  any  circumstances  to 
admit.  On  the  other  hand,  the  lavender 
phlox,  which  I  particularly  wanted,  was 
most  lovely,  but  frail.  It  refused  to  spread. 
It  effaced  itself  before  the  rampant  pink  and 
its  magenta-tainted  brood.  I  vowed  I  would 
pull  out  the  magentas,  but  each  year  my 
courage  failed.  They  bloomed  so  bravely;  I 
would  wait  till  they  were  through.  But  by 
that  time  I  was  not  quite  sure  which  was 
which;  I  might  pull  out  the  wrong  ones.  And 
so  I  hesitated. 

Moreover,  I  discovered,  lingering  among 
the  flowers  at  dusk,  that  there  were  certain 
colors,  most  unpleasant  by  daylight,  which 
at  that  time  took  on  a  new  shade,  and,  for 
perhaps  half  an  hour  before  night  fell,  were 
richly  lovely.  This  is  true  of  some  of  the 
magentas,  which  at  dusk  turn  suddenly  to 
royal  purples  and  deep  lavender-blues  that 
are  wonderfully  satisfying. 


JOYS  OF  GARDEN  STEWARDSHIP    111 

For  that  half -hour  of  beauty  I  spare  them. 
While  the  sun  shines  I  try  to  look  the  other 
way,  and  at  twilight  I  linger  near  them  and 
enjoy  their  strange,  dim  glories,  born  literally 
of  the  magic  hour.  But  I  have  trouble  ex 
plaining  them,  by  daylight,  to  some  of  my 
visitors  who  like  color-schemes. 

Insubordination  is  contagious.  And  I 
found  after  a  while  that  my  asters  were  not 
running  true;  queer  things  were  happening 
among  the  sweet  peas,  and  in  the  ranks  of  the 
hollyhocks  all  was  not  as  it  should  be.  And 
the  last  charge  was  made  upon  me  by  the 
children's  gardens.  Children  know  not  color- 
schemes.  What  they  demand  is  flowers,  flow 
ers  —  flowers  to  pick  and  pick,  flowers  to  do 
things  with.  Snapdragon,  for  instance,  is  a 
jolly  playmate,  and  little  fingers  love  to 
pinch  its  cheeks  and  see  its  jaws  yawn  wide. 
But  snapdragon  tends  dangerously  toward 
the  magenta.  Then  there  was  the  calendula 
—  a  delight  to  the  young,  because  it  blooms 
incessantly  long  past  the  early  frosts,  and  has 
brittle  stems  that  yield  themselves  to  the 
clumsiest  plucking  by  small  hands.  But  cal 
endula  ranges  from  a  faded  yellow,  through 


112  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

really  pretty  primrose  shades,  to  a  deep  red- 
orange  touched  with  maroon. 

And,  finally,  there  was  the  portulaca. 
Children  love  it,  perhaps,  best  of  all.  It  offers 
them  fresh  blossoms  and  new  colors  each 
morning,  and  it  is  even  more  easy  to  pick 
than  the  calendula.  Who  would  deny  them 
portulaca?  Yet  if  this  be  admitted,  one  may 
as  well  give  up  the  battle.  For,  as  we  all 
know,  there  is  absolutely  no  color,  except 
green,  that  portulaca  does  not  perpetrate  in 
its  blossoms.  It  knows  no  shame. 

In  short,  I  am  giving  up.  I  am  beginning 
to  say  with  conviction  that  color-schemes  are 
the  mark  of  a  narrow  and  rigid  taste  —  that 
they  are  born  of  convention  and  are  meant 
not  for  living  things  but  for  wall-papers  and 
portieres  and  clothes.  Moreover,  I  am  really 
growing  callous  —  or  is  it,  rather,  broad? 
Colors  in  my  garden  that  would  once  have 
made  my  teeth  ache  now  leave  them  feeling 
perfectly  comfortable.  I  find  myself  looking 
with  unmoved  flesh  —  no  creeps  nor  with 
drawals  —  upon  a  bed  of  mixed  magentas, 
scarlets,  rose-pinks,  and  yellow-pinks.  I  even 
look  with  pleasure.  I  begin  to  think  there 


JOYS   OF   GARDEN   STEWARDSHIP    113 

may  be  a  point  beyond  which  discord  achieves 
a  higher  harmony.  At  least,  this  sounds  well. 
But,  again,  I  find  it  hard  to  explain  to  some 
of  my  friends. 

Indoors,  it  is  another  story.  When  I  bring 
in  the  spoils  of  the  garden  I  am  again  mis 
tress  and  bend  all  to  my  will.  Here  I'll  have 
no  tricks  of  color  played  on  me.  Sunshine  and 
sky,  perhaps,  work  some  spell,  for  as  soon  as  I 
get  within  four  walls  my  prejudices  return; 
scarlets  and  crimsons  and  pinks  have  to  live 
in  different  rooms.  I  must  have  my  color- 
schemes  again,  and  perhaps  I  am  as  narrow 
as  the  worst.  Except,  indeed,  for  the  chil 
dren's  bowls;  here  the  pink  and  the  magenta, 
the  lamb  and  the  lion,  may  lie  down  together. 
But  it  takes  a  little  child  to  lead  them. 

Out  in  my  garden  I  feel  myself  less  and 
less  owner,  more  and  more  merely  steward. 
I  decree  certain  paths,  and  the  phlox  says, 
" Paths?  Did  you  say  paths?"  and  obliter 
ates  them  in  a  season's  growth,  so  that  chil 
dren  walk  by  faith  and  not  by  sight.  I  decree 
iris  in  one  corner,  and  the  primroses  say, 
"Iris?  Not  at  all.  This  is  our  bed.  Iris  in- 


114  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

deed!"  And  I  submit,  and  move  the  iris 
elsewhere. 

And  yet  this  slipping  of  responsibility  is 
pleasant,  too.  So  long  as  my  garden  will  let 
me  dig  in  it  and  weed  it  and  pick  it,  so  long  as 
it  entertains  my  friends  for  me,  so  long  as  it 
tosses  up  an  occasional  rock  so  that  Jonathan 
does  not  lose  all  interest  in  it,  so  long  as  it 
plays  prettily  with  the  children  and  flings  gay 
greetings  to  every  passer-by,  I  can  find  no 
fault  with  it. 

The  joys  of  stewardship  are  great  and  I 
am  well  content. 


VI 

Trout  and  Arbutus 

EVERY  year,  toward  the  end  of  March,  I  find 
Jonathan  poking  about  in  my  sewing-box. 
And,  unless  I  am  very  absent-minded,  I  know 
what  he  is  after. 

"No  use  looking  there,"  I  remark;  "I  keep 
my  silks  put  away." 

"I  want  red,  and  as  strong  as  there  is." 

"I  know  what  you  want.  Here."  and  I 
hand  him  a  spool  of  red  buttonhole  twist. 

"Ah!  Just  right!"  And  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening  his  fingers  are  busy. 

Over  what?  Mending  our  trout-rods,  of 
course.  It  is  pretty  work,  calling  for  strength 
and  precision  of  grasp,  and  as  he  winds  and 
winds,  adjusting  all  the  little  brass  leading- 
rings,  or  supplying  new  ones,  and  staying 
points  in  the  bamboo  where  he  suspects  weak 
ness,  we  talk  over  last  year's  trout-pools,  and 
wonder  what  they  will  be  like  this  year. 

But  beyond  wonder  we  do  not  get,  often 
for  weeks  after  the  trout  season  is,  legisla- 


116  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

lively,  "open."  Jonathan  is  "busy."  I  am 
"busy."  We  know  that,  if  April  passes,  there 
is  still  May  and  June,  and  so,  if  at  the  end  of 
April,  or  early  May,  we  do  at  last  pick  up 
our  rods,  —  all  new-bedight  with  red  silk 
windings,  and  shiny  with  fresh  varnish,  —  it 
is  not  alone  the  call  of  the  trout  that  decides 
us,  but  another  call  which  is  to  me  at  least 
more  imperious,  because,  if  we  neglect  it  now, 
there  is  no  May  and  June  in  which  to  heed  it. 
It  is  the  call  of  the  arbutus. 

Any  one  with  New  England  traditions 
knows  what  this  call  is.  Its  appeal  is  to 
something  far  deeper  than  the  love  of  a  pretty 
flower.  For  it  is  the  flower  that,  to  our  fathers 
and  our  grandfathers,  and  to  their  fathers  and 
grandfathers,  meant  spring;  and  not  spring  in 
its  prettiness  and  ease,  appealing  to  the  idler 
in  us,  nor  spring  in  its  melancholy,  appealing 
to  —  shall  I  say  the  poet  in  us?  But  spring 
in  its  blessedness  of  opportunity,  its  joyously 
triumphant  life,  appealing  to  the  worker  in 
us.  Here,  of  course,  we  touch  hands  with  all 
the  races  of  the  world  for  whom  winter  has 
been  the  supreme  menace,  spring  the  supreme 
and  saving  miracle.  But  each  race  has  its  own 


TROUT  AND  ARBUTUS  117 

symbols,  and  to  the  New  Englander  the  sym 
bol  is  the  arbutus. 

This  may  seem  a  bit  of  sentimentality. 
And,  indeed,  we  need  not  expect  to  find  it 
expressed  by  any  New  England  farmer.  New 
England  does  not  go  out  in  gay  companies  to 
bring  back  the  first  blossoms.  But  New 
England  does  nothing  in  gay  companies.  It 
has  been  taught  to  distrust  ceremonies  and 
expression  of  any  sort.  It  rejoices  with  reti 
cence,  it  appreciates  with  a  reservation.  And 
yet  I  have  seen  a  sprig  of  arbutus  in  rough 
and  clumsy  buttonholes  on  weather-faded 
lapels  which,  the  rest  of  the  twelve-month 
through,  know  no  other  flower.  And  when, 
in  unfamiliar  country,  I  have  interrupted  the 
ploughing  to  ask  for  guidance,  I  usually  get 
it:  —  "Arbutus?  Yaas.  The's  a  lot  of  it  up 
along  that  hillside  and  in  the  woods  over  be 
yond  —  't  was  out  last  week,  some  of  it,  I 
happened  to  notice"  —  this  in  the  apologetic 
tone  of  one  who  admits  a  weakness  —  "guess 
you'll  find  all  you  want."  I  venture  to  say 
that  of  no  other  wild  flower,  except  those 
which  work  specific  harm  or  good,  could  I  get 
such  information. 


118  MORE   JONATHAN  PAPERS 

To  many  of  us,  city-bred,  the  tradition 
comes  through  inheritance.  It  means,  per 
haps,  the  shy,  poetic  side  of  our  father's  boy 
hood,  only  half  acknowledged,  after  the  New 
England  fashion,  but  none  the  less  real  and 
none  the  less  our  possession.  It  means  rare 
days,  when  the  city  —  whose  chief est  signs 
of  spring  were  the  flare  of  dandelions  in  yards 
and  parks  and  the  chatter  of  English  sparrows 
on  ivy-clad  church  walls  —  was  left  behind, 
and  we  were  "in  the  country."  It  was  a 
country  excitingly  different  from  the  country 
of  the  summer  vacation,  a  country  not  deeply 
green,  but  warmly  brown,  and  sweet  with  the 
smell  of  moist,  living  earth.  Green  enough, 
indeed,  in  the  spring-fed  meadows  and  folds  of 
the  hills,  where  the  early  grass  flashes  into 
vividest  emerald,  but  in  the  woods  the  soft 
mist-colored  mazes  of  multitudinous  twigs 
still  show  through  their  veilings  and  dust 
ings  of  color  — palest  green  of  birches,  gray- 
green  of  poplar,  yellow-green  of  willows,  and 
redder  tones  of  the  maples;  and  along  the 
fence-lines  and  roadsides  —  blessed,  untidy 
fence-lines  and  roadsides  of  New  England  — 
a  fine  penciling  of  red  stems  —  the  cut-back 


TROUT  AND  ARBUTUS  119 

maple  bushes  and  tangled  vines  alive  to  their 
tips  and  just  bursting  into  leaf.  And  every 
where  in  the  woods,  on  fence-lines  and  road 
sides,  the  white  blossoms  of  the  "shad-blow," 
daintiest  of  spring  trees,  —  too  slight  for  a 
tree,  indeed,  though  too  tall  for  a  bush  and 
looking  less  like  a  tree  in  blossom  than  like 
floating  blossoms  caught  for  a  moment  among 
the  twigs.  A  moment  only,  for  the  first  gust 
loosens  them  again  and  carpets  the  woods 
with  their  petals,  but  while  they  last  their 
wrhiteness  shimmers  everywhere. 

Such  rare  days  were  all  blown  through 
with  the  wonderful  wind  of  spring.  Spring 
wind  is  really  different  from  any  other.  It  is 
not  a  finished  thing,  like  the  mellow  winds  of 
summer  and  the  cold  blasts  of  winter.  It  is  an 
imperfect  blend  of  shivering  reminiscence  and 
eager  promise.  One  moment  it  breathes  sun 
and  stirring  earth,  the  next  it  reminds  us  of 
old  snow  in  the  hollows,  and  bleak  northern 
slopes. 

When,  on  these  days,  the  wind  blew  to  us, 
almost  before  we  saw  it,  the  first  greeting  of 
the  arbutus,  it  always  seemed  that  the  day 
had  found  its  complete  and  satisfying  ex- 


120  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

pression.  Every  one  comes  to  realize,  at 
some  time  in  his  life,  the  power  of  suggestion 
possessed  by  odors.  Does  not  half  the  power 
of  the  Church  lie  in  its  incense?  An  odor,  just 
because  it  is  at  once  concrete  and  formless, 
can  carry  an  appeal  overwhelmingly  strong 
and  searching,  superseding  all  other  expres 
sion.  This  is  the  appeal  made  to  me  by  the 
arbutus.  It  can  never  be  quite  precipitated 
into  words,  but  it  holds  in  solution  all  the 
things  it  has  come  to  mean  —  dear  human 
tradition  and  beloved  companionship,  the 
poetry  of  the  land  and  the  miracle  of  new 
birth. 

In  late  March  or  early  April  I  am  likely  to 
see  the  first  blossom  on  some  friend's  table  — 
I  try  not  to  see  it  first  in  a  florist's  display ! 
To  my  startled  question  she  gives  reassuring 
answer,  "Oh,  no,  not  from  around  here.  This 
came  from  Virginia." 

Days  pass,  and,  perhaps,  the  mail  brings 
some  to  me,  this  time  from  Pennsylvania  or 
New  Jersey,  and  soon  I  can  no  longer  ignore 
the  trays  of  tight,  leafless  bunches  for  sale  on 
street  corners  and  behind  plate-glass  windows. 
"From  York  State,"  they  tell  me.  I  grow 
restive. 


TROUT  AND  ARBUTUS  121 

"Jonathan,"  I  say,  holding  up  a  spray  for 
him  to  smell,  "we've  got  to  go.  You  can't 
resist  that.  We'll  take  a  day  and  go  for  it  — 
and  trout,  too." 

It  is  as  well  that  arbutus  comes  in  the  trout 
season,  for  to  take  a  day  off  just  to  pick  a 
flower  might  seem  a  little  absurd.  But, 
coupled  with  trout  —  all  is  well.  Trout  is 
food.  One  must  eat.  The  search  for  food 
needs  no  defense,  and  yet,  the  curious  fact  is, 
that  if  you  go  for  trout  and  don't  get  any,  it 
does  n't  make  so  much  difference  as  you 
might  suppose,  but  if  you  go  for  arbutus  and 
don't  get  any,  it  makes  all  the  difference  in 
the  world.  And  so  Jonathan  knows  that  in 
choosing  his  brook  for  that  particular  day, 
he  must  have  regard  primarily  to  the  arbutus 
it  will  give  us  and  only  secondarily  to  the 
trout. 

Every  one  knows  the  kind  of  brook  that  is, 
for  every  one  knows  the  kind  of  country 
arbutus  loves  —  hilly  country,  with  slopes 
toward  the  north;  bits  of  woodland,  prefer 
ably  with  pine  in  it,  to  give  shade,  but  not  too 
deep  shade;  a  scrub  undergrowth  of  laurel 
and  huckleberry  and  bay;  and  always,  some- 


MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

where  within  sight  or  hearing,  water.  It  is 
curious  how  arbutus,  which  never  grows  in 
wet  places,  yet  seems  to  like  the  neighborhood 
of  water.  It  loves  the  slopes  above  a  brook 
or  the  shaggy  hillsides  overlooking  a  little 
pond  or  river. 

Fortunately,  there  is  such  a  brook,  in  just 
such  country,  on  our  list.  There  are  not  so 
many  trout  as  in  other  brooks,  but  enough  to 
justify  our  rods;  and  not  so  much  arbutus  as 
I  could  find  elsewhere,  but  enough  —  oh, 
enough! 

To  this  brook  we  go.  We  tie  Kit  at  the 
bridge,  Jonathan  slings  on  a  fish-basket,  to  do 
for  both,  and  I  take  a  box  or  two  for  the 
flowers.  But  from  this  moment  on  our  inter 
ests  are  somewhat  at  variance.  The  fact  is, 
Jonathan  cares  a  little  more  about  the  trout 
than  about  the  arbutus,  while  I  care  a  little 
more  about  the  arbutus  than  about  the 
trout.  His  eye  is  keenly  on  the  brook,  mine 
is,  yearningly,  on  the  ragged  hillsides  that  roll 
up  above  it. 

Jonathan  feels  this.  "There  is  n't  any  for 
two  fields  yet  —  might  as  well  stick  to  the 
brook." 


TROUT  AND  ARBUTUS  123 

"I  know.  I  thought  perhaps  I'd  go  on 
down  and  let  you  fish  this  part.  Then  I'd 
meet  you  beyond  the  second  fence  — " 
i  "  Oh,  no,  that  won't  do  at  all.  Why,  there 's 
a  rock  just  below  here  —  down  by  that  wild 
cherry  —  where  I  took  out  a  beauty  last 
year,  and  left  another.  I  want  you  to  go 
down  and  get  him." 

"You  get  him.   I  don't  mind." 

"Oh,  but  I  mind.  Here,  I've  got  it  all 
planned:  there's  a  bit  of  brush-fishing  just 
below—" 

"No  brush-fishing  for  me,  please!" 

"That's  what  I'm  saying,  if  you'll  only 
give  me  time.  I  '11  take  that  —  there  are 
always  two  or  three  in  there  —  and  when 
you've  finished  here  you  can  go  around  me 
and  fish  the  bend,  under  the  hemlocks,  and 
then  the  first  arbutus  is  just  beside  that,  and 
I'll  join  you  there." 

"  Well "  —  I  assent  grudgingly  —  "  only, 
really,  I'd  be  just  as  happy  if  you'd  fish  the 
whole  thing  and  let  me  go  right  on  down  — " 

"  No,  you  would  n't.  Now,  remember  to 
sneak  before  you  get  to  that  rock.  Drop  in 
six  feet  above  it  and  let  the  current  do  the 


124  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

rest.  They're  awfully  shy.  I  expect  you  to 
get  at  least  one  there,  and  two  down  at  the 
bend."  He  trudges  off  to  his  brush-fishing 
and  leaves  me  bound  in  honor  to  extract  a 
trout  from  under  that  rock.  I  deposit  my 
boxes  in  the  meadow  above  it,  and  "sneak" 
down.  The  sneak  of  a  trout  fisherman  is  like 
no  other  form  of  locomotion,  and  I  am  con 
vinced  that  the  human  frame  was  not  evolved 
with  it  in  mind.  But  I  resort  to  it  in  defer 
ence  to  Jonathan's  prejudices  —  in  deference, 
also,  to  the  fact  that  when  I  do  not  the  trout 
seldom  bite.  And  Jonathan  is  so  trustfully 
counting  on  my  getting  that  trout! 

I  did  get  him.  I  dropped  in  my  line,  as  per 
directions,  and  let  the  current  do  the  rest; 
had  the  thrill  of  feeling  the  line  suddenly 
caught  and  drawn  under  the  rock,  held,  then 
wiggled  slightly;  I  struck,  felt  the  weight, 
drew  back  steadily,  and  in  a  few  moments 
there  was  a  flopping  in  the  grass  behind  me. 

So  that  was  off  my  mind. 

I  strung  him  on  a  twig  of  wild  cherry, 
gathered  up  my  boxes,  and  wandered  along 
the  faint  path,  back  of  the  patch  of  brush 
where,  I  knew,  Jonathan  wras  cheerfully 


TROUT  AND  ARBUTUS  125 

threading  his  line  through  tangles  of  twig, 
briar,  and  vine,  compared  with  which  the 
needle's  eye  is  as  a  yawning  barn  door. 
Jonathan's  attitude  toward  brush-fishing  is 
something  which  I  respect  without  under 
standing.  Down  one  long  field  I  went,  where 
the  brook  ran  in  shallow  gayety,  and  there, 
ahead,  was  the  bend,  a  sudden  curve  of 
water,  deepening  under  the  roots  of  an  over 
hanging  hemlock.  I  climbed  the  stone  wall 
beside,  glanced  at  the  water  —  very  trouty 
water  indeed  —  glanced  at  the  hill-pasture 
above  —  very  arbutusy  indeed  —  laid  down 
my  rod  and  my  trout  and  my  box,  and  ran 
up  the  low  bank  to  a  clump  of  bay  and  berry- 
bushes  that  I  thought  I  remembered.  .  .  . 
Yes!  There  it  was!  I  had  remembered !  Ah! 
The  dear  things! 

When  you  first  find  arbutus,  there  is  only 
one  thing  to  do:  —  lie  right  down  beside  it. 
Its  fragrance  as  it  grows  is  different  from 
what  it  is  after  it  is  picked,  because  with  the 
sweetness  of  the  blossoms  is  mingled  the  good 
smell  of  the  earth  and  of  the  woody  twigs  and 
of  the  dried  grass  and  leaves.  And  there  are 
other  rewards  one  gets  by  lying  down.  It  is 


126  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

all  very  well  to  talk  proudly  about  man's 
walking  with  his  head  erect  and  his  face  to 
the  heavens,  but  if  we  keep  that  posture  all 
the  time  we  miss  a  good  deal.  The  attitude 
of  the  toad  and  the  lizard  is  not  to  be  scorned, 
though  when  the  needs  of  locomotion  convert 
it  into  the  fisherman's  "sneak,"  it  is,  as  I 
have  suggested,  to  be  sparingly  indulged  in. 
But  if  we  could  only  nibble  now  and  then 
from  "the  other  side"  of  Alice's  mushroom, 
what  a  new  outlook  we  should  get  on  the 
world  that  now  lies  about  our  feet!  What 
new  aspects  of  its  beauty  would  be  revealed 
to  us:  the  forest  grandeurs  of  the  grass,  the 
architecture  of  its  slim  shafts  with  their  pil 
lared  aisles  and  pointed  arches  of  interlocking 
and  upspringing  curves,  their  ceiling  traceries 
of  spraying  tops  against  a  far-away  back 
ground  of  sky! 

To  know  arbutus,  you  must  stoop  to  its 
level,  and  look  across  the  fine,  frosty  fur  of 
its  stiff  little  leaves,  and  feel  the  nestle  of  its 
stems  to  the  ground,  the  little  up-fling  of  their 
tips  toward  the  sun,  and  the  neat  radiance 
of  its  flower  clusters,  with  their  blessed 
fragrance  and  their  pure,  babyish  color. 


TROUT  AND  ARBUTUS  127 

But  after  that?  You  want  to  pick  it.  Yes, 
you  really  want  to  pick  it! 

In  this  it  is  different  from  other  flowers. 
Most  of  them  I  am  well  content  to  leave 
where  they  grow.  In  fact,  the  love  of  picking 
things  —  flowers  or  anything  else  —  is  a 
youthful  taste:  we  lose  it  as  we  grow  older; 
we  become  more  and  more  willing  to  appre 
ciate  without  acquiring,  or  rather,  apprecia 
tion  becomes  to  us  a  finer  and  more  spiritual 
form  of  acquiring.  Is  it  possible  that,  after  all, 
the  old  idea  of  heaven  as  a  state  of  enraptured 
contemplation  is  in  harmony  with  the  trend 
of  our  development? 

But  if  there  is  arbutus  in  heaven,  I  shall 
need  to  develop  a  good  deal  further  not  to 
want  to  pick  it.  It  suggests  picking;  it 
almost  invites  it.  There  is  something  about 
the  way  it  nestles  and  hides,  that  makes  you 
want  to  see  it  better.  Here  is  a  spray  of  pure 
white,  living  -under  a  green  tent  of  overlapping 
leaves;  one  must  raise  it,  and  nip  off  just  one 
leaf,  so  that  the  blossoms  can  see  out.  There 
is  another,  a  pink  cluster,  showing  faintly 
through  the  dry,  matted  grass.  You  feel  for 
the  stem,  pull  it  gently,  and,  lo,  it  is  many 


128  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

stems,  which  have  crept  their  way  under  the 
tangle,  and  every  one  is  tipped  with  a  cluster 
of  stars  or  round  little  buds  each  on  its  long 
stem,  fairly  begging  to  be  picked.  It  gets 
picked. 

Yet  sometimes  its  very  beauty  has  stayed 
my  hand.  I  shall  never  forget  one  clump  I 
found,  growing  out  of  a  bank  of  deep  green 
moss,  partly  shaded  by  a  great  hemlock.  The 
soft  pink  blossoms  —  luxuriant  leafy  sprays  of 
them  —  were  lying  out  on  the  moss  in  a  pa 
gan  carelessness  of  beauty,  as  though  some 
god  had  willed  it  there  for  his  pleasure.  I  sat 
beside  it  a  long  time,  and  in  the  end  I  left  it 
without  picking  it. 

On  this  particular  day,  Jonathan  being 
still  lost  in  the  brush  patch,  I  had  risen 
from  my  visit  with  the  first-discovered  blos 
soms  and  wandered  on,  from  clump  to  clump, 
wherever  the  glimpse  of  a  leaf  attracted  me, 
picking  the  choicest  here  and  there  and 
dropping  them  into  my  box.  After  I  do  not 
know  how  long,  I  was  roused  by  Jonathan's 
whistle.  I  was  some  distance  up  the  hillside 
by  this  time,  and  he  was  beside  the  brook,  at 
the  bend. 


TROUT  AND  ARBUTUS  129 

"What  luck?  "he  called. 

"Good  luck!  I've  found  lots.   Come  up!" 

He  took  a  few  steps  up  toward  me,  so  that 
conversation  could  drop  from  shouting  to 
speaking  levels.  "How  many  did  you  get?" 
he  asked. 

"How  many?  ...  Oh  ...  why  ...  Oh,  I 
got  one  up  there  where  you  showed  me  — 
under  the  rock,  you  know." 

"Good  one?" 

"Eight  inches.  He's  down  there  by  the 
bars." 

" Good !  And  what  about  the  bend? " 

"The  bend?  Oh,  I  didn't  fish  there  — 
look  at  these!  Aren't  they  beauties?"  I 
came  down  the  hill  to  hold  my  open  box  up 
to  his  face.  But  my  casual  word  almost 
effaced  the  scent  of  the  flowers. 

"Ah  —  yes  —  delicious  —  didn't  fish 
there?  Why  not?  Did  they  see  you?" 

"Who?  The  trout?  I  don't  know.  But  I 
saw  this.  And  I  just  had  to  pick  it." 

"Well!  You 're  a  great  fisherman!  And  with 
that  water  right  there  beside  you!  Lord!" 

"With  the  arbutus  right  here  beside  me! 
Lord!" 


130  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"But  the  arbutus  would  wait." 

"But  the  trout  would  wait.  They're  wait 
ing  for  you  now,  don't  you  hear  them?  Go 
and  fish  there!" 

"No.  That's  your  pool."  Jonathan  has  a 
way  of  bestowing  a  trout-pool  on  me  as  if  it 
were  a  bouquet.  To  refuse  its  opportunities 
is  almost  like  throwing  his  flowers  back  in  his 
face. 

"Well  —  of  course  it's  a  beautiful  pool  — " 

"Best  on  the  brook,"  murmured  Jonathan. 

"But,  truly,  I'd  enjoy  it  just  as  much  to 
have  you  fish  it." 

"Nobody  can  fish  it  now  for  a  while.    I 
thought  you'd  be  there,  of  course,  and  I  came 
stamping  along  down,  close  by  the  bank. 
They  would  n't  bite  now  —  not  for  half  an 
hour,  anyway." 

"Well,  then,  that 's  just  right.  We'll  go  on 
up  the  hillside  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  come 
back  and  fish  it.  Set  your  rod  up  against  the 
bayberry  here,  and  come  along  —  look  there! 
you're  almost  stepping  on  some!" 

Jonathan,  gradually  adjusting  himself  to 
the  turn  of  things,  stood  his  rod  up  against 
the  bush  with  the  meticulous  care  of  the  true 


TROUT  AND  ARBUTUS  131 

sportsman.    "Where  did  you  leave  yours?" 
he  asked,  with  a  suspiciousness  born  of  a 
deep  knowledge  of  my  character. 
"Oh,  down  by  the  bars." 
"Standing  up  or  lying  down?" 
"Lying  down,  I  think.   It's  all  right." 
"It's  not  all  right  if  it's  lying  down.  Any 
thing  might  trample  on  it." 

"  For  instance,  what? — birds  or  crickets?  " 
"For  instance,  people  or  cows."  He  strode 
down  the  hill,  and  I  saw  him  stoop.  As  he 
returned  I  could  read  disapproval  in  his  gait. 
"Will  you  never  learn  how  to  treat  a  rod! 
It  was  lying  just  beyond  the  bars.  I  must 
have  landed  within  two  feet  of  it  when  I 
jumped  over." 

"I'm  sorry.  I  meant  to  go  back.  I  know 
perfectly  how  to  treat  a  rod.  My  trouble 
comes  in  knowing  when  to  apply  my  knowl 
edge.  .  .  .  Well,  let's  go  up  there.  Near  those 
big  hemlocks  there's  some,  I  remember." 
And  we  wandered  on,  separating  a  little  to 
scan  the  ground  more  widely. 

Once  having  pried  his  mind  away  from  the 
trout,  Jonathan  was  as  keen  for  arbutus  as  I 
could  wish3  and  soon  I  heard  an  exclamation, 


132  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

and  saw  him  kneel.  "Oh,  come  over!"  he 
called;  "you  really  ought  to  see  this  grow 
ing!" 

"But  there's  some  I  want,  right  here, 
that's  lovely—" 

"Never  mind.  Come  and  see  this  —  oh, 
come!" 

Of  course  I  come,  and  of  course  I  am  glad  I 
came,  and  of  course  soon  I  am  obliged  to  call 
Jonathan  to  see  some  I  have  found  —  "Jon 
athan,  it  is  truly  the  loveliest  yet!  It's  the 
way  it  grows  —  with  the  moss  and  all  — 
please  come!"  And  of  course  he  comes. 

We  had  been  on  the  hillside  a  long  half- 
hour,  much  nearer  an  hour,  when  Jonathan 
began  to  grow  restive.  "Don't  you  think  you 
have  enough?"  he  suggested  several  times. 
Finally,  he  spoke  plainly  of  the  trout. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  I  said,  "you  go  down 
and  I'll  follow  just  as  soon  as  I've  gone  along 
that  upper  path." 

Not  at  all.  That  was  not  what  was  wanted. 
So  I  turned  and  we  went  down  the  hill,  back 
to  the  bend,  whose  seductions  I  had  been  so 
puzzlingly  able  to  resist.  I  am  sure  Jonathan 
has  never  yet  quite  understood  how  I  could 


TROUT  AND  ARBUTUS  133 

leave  that  bit  of  water  at  my  left  hand  and 
turn  away  to  the  right. 

"Now  — sneak!" 

We  sneaked,  and  I  sank  down  just  back  of 
the  edge  of  the  bank.  Jonathan  crouched 
some  feet  behind,  coaching  me:  —  "Now  — 
draw  out  a  little  more  line  —  not  too  much  — 
there  —  and  have  some  slack  in  your  hand. 
Now,  up-stream  fifteen  feet  —  allow  for  the 
wind  —  wait  till  that  gust  passes  —  now ! 
Good !  First-rate !  Now  let  her  drift  —  there  — 
what  did  I  tell  you?  Give  him  line!  Give  him 
line!  Now,  feel  of  him  —  careful!  You'll 
know  when  to  strike  .  .  .  there! ...  Oh!  too 
bad!" 

For  as  I  struck,  my  line  held  fast. 

"Snagged,  by  gummy!  Can't  you  pull 
clear?  " 

"  Not  without  stirring  up  the  whole  pool. 
You'll  have  to  do  the  fishing,  after  all." 

"  Oh!  too  bad!   That's  hard  luck!" 

"Not  a  bit.  I  like  to  watch  you  do  it." 

And  so  indeed  I  did.  Once  having  realized 
that  I  was  temporarily  laid  by,  Jonathan  put 
his  whole  mind  on  the  pool,  while  I,  being 
honorably  released  from  all  responsibility, 


134  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

except  that  of  keeping  my  line  taut,  could 
put  my  whole  mind  on  his  performance. 
There  is  a  little  the  same  sort  of  pleasure  in 
watching  the  skillful  handling  of  a  rod  that 
there  is  in  watching  the  bow-action  of  a 
violinist.  Both  things  demand  the  utmost 
nicety  of  adjustment: 'body,  arm,  wrist,  rin 
gers  uniting  in  an  interplay  of  efficiency  ex 
actly  adapted  to  the  intricately  shifting  needs 
of  each  moment. 

Thus  I  watched,  through  the  typical  stages 
of  the  sport:  the  delicate  flip  of  the  bait  into 
the  current  at  just  the  right  spot;  its  swift 
descent,  imperceptibly  guided  by  the  rod's 
quivering  tip;  its  slower  drift  toward  deep 
water;  its  sudden  vanishing,  and  the  whir  of 
the  reel  as  the  line  goes  out;  then  the  pause, 
the  critical  moments  of  "feeling  for  him";  at 
last  the  strike  .  .  .  and  then,  a  flopping  in  the 
grass  behind  me,  and  Jonathan  crawling 
back  to  kill  and  unhook  him. 

"Don't  get  up.  There's  probably  another 
one,"  he  said;  and  soon,  by  the  same  reptilian 
methods,  was  back  for  another  try.  There 
was  another  one,  and  yet  another,  and  then  a 
little  fellow,  barely  hooked.  "That's  all," 


TROUT  AND  ARBUTUS  135 

said  Jonathan,  as  he  rose  to  put  him  back  into 
the  pool,  and  we  watched  the  pretty  spotted 
creature  fling  himself  upstream  with  a  wild 
flourish  of  his  gleaming  body. 

"Now  I'll  get  you  clear,"  said  Jonathan, 
wading  out  into  the  water,  and,  with  sleeves 
rolled  high,  feeling  deep,  deep  down  under 
the  opposite  bank.  "He  had  you  all  right  — 
it's  wound  round  a  root  and  then  jabbed 
deep  into  it  ...  hard  luck!  I  wanted  you  to 
get  those  fellows!"  And  to  this  day  I  am  sure 
he  remembers  those  trout  with  a  tinge  of 
regret. 

I  had  intended  leaving  him  to  fish  the  rest 
of  the  brook,  while  I  went  back  to  that  upper 
path  to  look  up  two  or  three  special  arbutus 
clumps  that  I  knew,  but  seeing  his  depression 
over  the  snag  incident,  I  could  not  suggest 
this.  Instead  I  followed  the  stream  with  him, 
accepting  his  urgent  offer  of  all  the  best  pools, 
while  he,  taking  what  was  left,  drew  out  per 
fectly  good  trout  from  the  most  unhopeful- 
looking  bits  of  water.  And  at  the  end,  there 
was  time  to  return  along  the  upper  path  and 
visit  my  old  friends,  so  both  of  us  were  sat 
isfied. 


136  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

i- 

On  such  days,  however,  there  is  always  one 
person  who  is  not  satisfied,  and  that  is,  Kit 
the  horse.  Kit  has  borne  with  our  vagaries 
for  many  years,  but  she  has  never  come  to 
understand  them.  She  never  fails  to  greet 
our  return,  as  our  voices  come  within  the 
range  of  her  pricked-up  ears,  by  a  prolonged 
and  reproachful  whinny,  which  says  as  plainly 
as  is  necessary,  "Back?  Well  —  I  should 
think  it  was  time!  I  should  think  it  was 
TIME!9'  Now  and  then  we  have  thought  it 
would  be  pleasant  to  have  a  little  motor-car 
that  could  be  tucked  away  at  any  roadside, 
without  reference  to  a  good  hitching-place, 
but  if  we  had  it,  I  am  sure  we  should  miss  that 
ungracious  welcoming  whinny.  We  should 
miss,  too,  the  exasperated  violence  of  Kit's 
pace  on  the  first  bit  of  the  home  road  —  a 
violence  expressing  in  the  most  ostentatious 
manner  her  opinion  of  folks  who  keep  a  re 
spectable  horse  hitched  by  the  roadside,  far 
from  the  delights  of  the  dim,  sweet  stable 
and  the  dusty,  sneezy,  munchy  hay. 

But  leaving  out  this  little  matter  of  Kit's 
preference,  and  also  the  other  little  matter  of 
the  trout's  preference,  I  feel  sure  that  an  arbu- 


TROUT  AND  ARBUTUS  137 

tus-trouting  is  peculiarly  satisfying.  It  meets 
every  human  need  —  the  need  of  food  and 
beauty,  the  need  of  feeling  strong  and  skill 
ful,  the  need  of  becoming  deeply  aware  of 
nature  as  living  and  kind.  Moreover,  it  is 
very  satisfying  afterwards.  As  we  sat  that 
evening,  over  a  late  supper,  with  a  shallow 
dish  of  arbutus  beside  us,  I  remarked,  "The 
advantage  of  getting  arbutus  is,  that  you 
bring  the  whole  day  home  with  you  and 
have  it  at  your  elbow." 

"The  advantage  of  getting  trout,"  re 
marked  Jonathan  dreamily,  as  if  to  himself, 
"is,  that  you  bring  your  whole  day  home 
with  you,  and  have  it  for  breakfast." 


VII 

Without  the  Time  of  Day 

"JONATHAN,  did  you  ever  live  without  a 
clock,  —  whole  days,  I  mean,  —  days  and 
days—" 

"When  I  was  a  boy  —  most  of  the  time,  I 
suppose.  But  the  family  did  n't  like  it." 

"  Of  course.    But  did  you  like  it?" 

"Yes,  I  liked  it  all.  I  seem  to  remember 
getting  pretty  hungry  sometimes,  but  it's  all 
rather  good  as  I  look  back  on  it." 

"Let's  do  it!" 

"Now?" 

"No.  Society  is  an  enlarged  family,  and 
would  n't  like  it.  But  this  summer,  when 
we  camp." 

"How  do  you  know  we're  going  to  camp? " 

"The  things  we  know  best  we  don't  always 
know  how  we  know." 

"Well,  then,  —  if  we  camp  — " 

"When  we  camp  —  let's  live  without  a 
watch." 

"You  'd  need  one  to  get  there." 


WITHOUT  THE   TIME  OF   DAY       139 

"Take  one,  and  let  it  run  down." 

As  it  turned  out,  my  "when"  was  truer 
than  Jonathan's  "if."  We  did  camp.  We 
did,  however,  use  watches  to  get  there:  when 
we  expressed  our  baggage,  when  we  sent  our 
canoe,  when  we  took  the  trolley  car  and  the 
train;  and  the  watch  was  still  going  as  our 
laden  craft  nosed  gently  against  the  bank  of 
the  river-island  that  was  to  be  our  home  for 
two  weeks.  It  was  late  afternoon,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  steep  \voods  on  the  western 
bank  had  already  turned  the  rocks  in  mid 
stream  from  silver  to  gray,  and  dimmed  the 
brightness  of  the  swift  water,  almost  to  the 
eastern  shore. 

"Will  there  be  time  to  get  settled  before 
dark?"  I  asked,  as  we  stepped  out  into  the 
shallow  water  and  drew  up  the  canoe  to  un 
load. 

"Shall  I  look  at  my  watch  to  see?"  asked 
Jonathan,  with  a  note  of  amiable  derision  in 
his  voice. 

"Well,  I  should  rather  like  to  know  what 
time  it  is.  We  won't  begin  till  to-morrow." 

"You  mean,  we  won't  begin  to  stop  watch 
ing.  All  right.  It's  just  seventeen  and  a  half 


140  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

minutes  after  five.  I'll  give  you  the  seconds 
if  you  like." 

"Minutes  will  do  nicely,  thank  you." 

"Lots  of  time.  You  collect  firewood  while 
I  get  the  tent  ready.  Then  it'll  need  us  both 
to  set  it  up." 

We  worked  busily,  happily.  Ah!  The  joy 
ous  elation  of  the  first  night  in  camp!  Is 
there  anything  like  it?  With  days  and  days 
ahead,  and  not  even  one  counted  off  the 
shining  number!  All  the  good  things  of 
childhood  and  maturity  seem  pressed  into 
one  mood  of  flawless,  abounding  happiness. 

By  dark  the  tent  was  up,  the  baggage 
stowed,  the  canoe  secured,  the  fire  glowing 
in  a  bed  of  embers,  and  we  sat  beside  it,  look 
ing  out  past  the  glooms  of  the  hemlocks 
across  the  moonlit  river,  —  sat  and  ate  city- 
cooked  chicken  and  sandwiches  and  drank 
thermos-bottled  tea. 

"To-morrow  we'll  cook,"  I  said.  "To 
night  it's  rather  nice  not  to  have  to.  Look  at 
the  moonlight  on  that  rock!  How  black  it 
makes  the  eddy  below!" 

"Good  bass  under  there,"  said  Jonathan. 
"We'll  get  some  to-morrow." 


WITHOUT  THE  TIME  OF  DAY      141 

"Maybe." 

"Well,  of  course,  it 's  always  maybe,  with 
bass.  Well  —  I'm  done  —  and  it's  quarter  to 
ten  —  late!  Oh!  Excuse  me!  Maybe  you'd 
rather  I  had  n't  told  you.  By  the  way,  do  I 
wind  my  watch  to-night  or  not?" 

"Not." 

"Not  it  is,  then.  Sure  you  would  n't  rather 
have  it  wound,  though?  We  can  leave  it 
hanging  in  the  tent.  It  won't  break  loose  and 
bite  you." 

"Yes,  it  would.  There  would  be  a  some 
thing  —  a  taint  — " 

"Oh,  all  right!" 

We  slept  with  the  murmur  of  the  river 
running  through  our  dreams,  —  a  murmur  of 
many  voices :  deep  voices,  high  voices,  grum 
bling  voices  as  the  stones  go  grinding  and  roll 
ing  along  the  ever-changing  bottom,  —  and 
only  half  roused  when  the  dawn  chorus  of 
the  birds  filled  the  air.  That  dawn  chorus  was 
something  we  should  have  been  loath  to  miss. 
Through  the  first  gray  of  the  morning  there 
comes  a  stir  in  the  woods,  an  expectant 
tremor;  a  bird  peeps  softly  and  is  still;  then 


142  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

another,  and  another,  "softly  conferring  to 
gether."  As  the  light  grows  warmer,  comes  a 
clearer  note  from  some  leader,  then  a  full, 
complete  song;  another,  and  the  woods  are 
awake,  flinging  out  their  wonderful  song- 
greeting  to  the  morning.  There  is  in  it  a  prod 
igality  of  swift-changing  beauty  like  ocean 
surf:  a  continuous  and  intricate  interweaving 
of  rhythms,  pulses  and  ebbings  of  clear  tone, 
beautiful  phrases  rising  antiphonal,  shower- 
ings  of  bright  notes,  moments  of  subsidence, 
almost  of  pause.  As  the  light  grows  and 
sharpens,  the  music  reaches  a  crescendo  of 
exuberance,  and  at  last  dies  down  as  real  day 
comes,  bringing  with  it  the  day's  work.  On 
our  island  the  leader  of  the  chorus  was  al 
most  always  a  song  sparrow,  though  once  or 
twice  a  wood  thrush  came  over  from  the  shore 
woods  and  filled  the  hemlock  shadows  with 
the  limpid  splendors  of  his  song. 

Hearing  the  chorus  through  our  dreams, 
we  slept  again,  and  when  I  really  waked  the 
sun  was  high,  flecking  the  eastern  V  of  our 
tent  with  dazzling  patches.  I  heard  Jonathan 
moving  about  outside,  and  the  crackling  of 
a  new-made  fire.  I  went  to  the  front  of  the 


WITHOUT  THE  TIME  OF  DAY       143 

tent  and  looked  out.  Yes,  there  they  were, 
the  fire  and  Jonathan,  in  a  quiet  space  of 
shade  where  the  early  coolness  still  hung. 
Beyond  them,  half  shut  out  from  view  by 
the  low-spreading  hemlock  boughs,  was  the 
open  river  —  such  gayety  of  swift  water ! 
Such  dazzle  of  midsummer  morning!  I  drew 
back,  eager  to  be  out  in  it. 

"Bacon  and  eggs,  is  it?"  called  Jonathan, 
"or  shall  I  run  down  and  try  for  a  bass?" 

"Don't!"  I  called.  I  knew  that  if  he  once 
got  out  after  bass  he  was  lost  to  me  for  the 
day.  And  now  we  had  cut  loose  from  even 
the  mild  tyranny  of  his  watch.  As  I  thought 
of  this  I  went  over  to  the  many-forked  tree, 
whose  close-trimmed  branches  served  our  tent 
as  hat-rack,  clothes-rack,  everything-that- 
can-hang-or-perch-rack,  and  opened  Jona 
than's  watch. 

"Well,  what  time  is  it?"  Jonathan  was 
peering  in  between  the  tent-flaps. 

"Twenty-two  minutes  before  five." 

"A.M.,  I  judge.  Sorry  you  did  n't  let  me 
wind  it?" 

"Not  a  bit.  I  was  just  curious  to  see  when 
it  stopped,  that  was  all." 


144  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Well,  now  you  know.  Hereafter  the  offi 
cial  time  for  the  camp  is  4.38  —  A.M.  or  P.M., 
according  to  taste.  Come  along.  The  bacon's 
done,  and  I  'm  blest  if  I  want  to  drop  in  the 
eggs." 

Dropping  an  egg  will  never,  I  fear,  be  one 
of  Jonathan's  most  finished  performances. 
He  watched  me  do  it  with  generous  admira 
tion.  "If  you  could  just  get  over  being 
scared  of  them,"  I  suggested,  as  the  last  one 
plumped  into  the  pan  and  set  up  its  gentle 
sizzle. 

"No  use.  I  am  scared  of  the  things.  I  tap 
and  tap,  and  nothing  happens,  and  then  I 
get  mad  and  tap  hard,  and  they  're  all  over 
the  place." 

By  the  time  breakfast  was  over,  even  the 
coolness  under  the  hemlocks  was  beginning  to 
grow  warm  and  aromatic.  The  birds  in  the 
shore  woods  were  quieter,  though  out  at  the 
sunny  end  of  our  island,  where  the  hemlocks 
gave  place  to  low  scrub  growth,  the  song 
sparrow  sang  gayly  now  and  then. 

"Now,"  said  Jonathan,  "what  about  fish 
ing?" 

"Well  — let's  fish!" 


WITHOUT  THE  TIME  OF  DAY       145 

"One  up  stream  and  one  down,  or  keep  to 
gether?" 

"Together,"  I  decided.  "If  we  go  two 
ways  there  's  no  telling  when  I  '11  ever  see 
you  again." 

"Yes,  there  is:  when  I'm  hungry." 

"No;  some  time  after  you  've  noticed 
you  're  hungry." 

"Now,  if  we  had  watches  it  would  be  so 
much  simpler:  we  could  meet  here  at,  say, 
one  o'clock." 

"Simple,  indeed!  When  did  you  ever  look 
at  a  watch  when  you  were  fishing,  unless  I 
made  you?  No,  my  way  is  simple,  but  we 
stay  together." 

Of  course,  in  river  fishing,  "  together  "  means 
simply  not  absolutely  out  of  sight  of  each 
other.  Jonathan  may  be  up  to  his  arm-pits  in 
mid-current,  or  marooned  on  a  rock  above  a 
swirling  eddy,  while  I  am  in  a  similar  situa 
tion  beyond  calling  distance,  but  so  long  as  a 
bend  in  the  river  does  not  cut  us  off,  we  are 
"together/'  and  very  companionable  togeth 
erness  it  is,  too.  When  I  see  Jonathan  wildly 
waving  to  attract  my  attention,  I  know  he 
has  either  just  caught  a  big  bass  or  else  just 


146  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

lost  one,  and  this  gives  me  something  to  smile 
over  as  I  wonder  which  it  is.  After  a  time,  if 
I  am  catching  shiners  and  no  bass,  and  Jona 
than  does  n't  seem  to  be  moving,  I  infer  that 
his  luck  is  better  than  mine,  and  drift  along 
toward  him.  Or  it  may  be  the  other  way 
around,  and  he  comes  to  look  me  up.  Bass 
are  the  most  uncertain  of  fish,  and  no  one 
can  predict  when  they  will  elect  to  bite,  or 
where.  Sometimes  they  are  in  the  still  water, 
deep  or  shallow  according  to  their  caprice; 
sometimes  they  hang  on  the  edges  of  the 
rapids;  sometimes  they  are  in  the  dark, 
smooth  eddies  below  the  great  boulders; 
sometimes  in  the  clear  depths  around  the 
rocks  near  shore.  Each  day  afresh,  —  indeed, 
each  morning  and  each  afternoon,  —  the 
fisherman  must  try,  and  try,  and  try,  until 
he  discovers  what  their  choice  has  been  for 
that  special  time.  Yet  no  fisherman  who  has 
once  drawn  out  a  good  bass  from  a  certain 
bit  of  water  can  help  feeling,  next  time,  that 
there  is  another  waiting  for  him  there.  That 
is  one  of  the  reasons  why  he  is  always  hopeful, 
and  so  always  happy.  The  fish  he  has  caught, 
at  this  well-remembered  spot  and  that,  rise 


WITHOUT  THE  TIME  OF  DAY   147 

up  out  of  the  past  and  flick  their  tails  at  him; 
and  all  the  stretches  between  —  stretches  of 
water  that  have  never  for  him  held  anything 
but  shiners,  stretches  of  time  diversified  by 
not  even  a  nibble  —  sink  into  pleasant  in 
significance. 

We  banked  our  fire,  stowed  everything  in 
the  tent  that  a  thunderstorm  would  hurt, 
and  splashed  out  into  the  river.  There  it  lay 
in  all  its  bright,  swift  beauty,  and  we  stood 
a  moment,  looking,  feeling  the  push  of  the 
water  about  our  knees  and  the  warmth  of  the 
sun  on  our  shoulders. 

"It  makes  a  difference,  sleeping  out  in  it 
all,"  I  said.  "You  feel  as  if  it  belonged  to 
you  so  much  more.  I  quite  own  the  river  this 
morning,  don't  you?  " 

"Quite.  But  not  the  bass  in  it.  Bet  you 
don't  catch  one!" 

"Bet  I  beat  you!" 

"Bass,  mind  you.  Sunfish  don't  count. 
You're  always  catching  sunfish." 

"They  count  in  the  pan.  But  I'll  beat  you 
on  bass.  I  know  some  places  — " 

"Who  does  n't?  All  right,  go  ahead!" 

WTe  were  off;  Jonathan,  as  usual,  wading 


148  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

up  to  his  chest  or  perched  on  a  bit  of  boulder 
above  some  dark,  slick  rapid;  I  preferring 
water  not  more  than  waist-deep,  and  not  too 
far  from  shore  to  miss  the  responses  of  the 
wood-folk  to  my  passing:  soft  flurries  of 
wings;  shy,  half -suppressed  peep  ings;  quick 
warning  notes;  light  footfalls,  hopping  or 
running  or  galloping;  the  snapping  of  twigs 
and  the  crushing  of  leaves.  Some  sounds  tell 
me  who  the  creature  is,  —  the  warning  of  the 
blue  jay,  the  whirr  of  the  big  ruffed  grouse, 
the  thud  of  the  bounding  rabbit,  —  but  many 
others  leave  me  guessing,  which  is  almost 
better.  When  a  very  big  stick  snaps,  I  always 
feel  sure  a  deer  is  stealing  away,  though  Jona 
than  assures  me  that  a  chewink  can  break 
twigs  and  "kick  up  a  row  generally,"  so  that 
you'd  swear  it  was  nothing  smaller  than  a 
wild  bull. 

So  we  fished  that  day.  When  I  caught  a 
bass,  which  was  seldom,  I  whooped  and 
waved  it  at  Jonathan,  and  when  I  caught  a 
shiner,  which  was  rather  often,  I  waved  it 
too,  just  to  keep  his  mind  occupied.  Hours 
passed,  and  we  met  at  a  bend  in  the  river 
where  the  deep  water  glides  close  to  shore. 


WITHOUT  THE  TIME   OF  DAY      149 

"Hungry?  "I  asked. 

"Now  you  speak  of  it,  yes." 

"Shall  we  go  back?" 

"How  can  I  tell?  Now,  if  we  only  had  that 
watch  we'd  know  whether  we  ought  to  be 
hungry  or  not." 

"What  does  that  matter,  if  we  are  hungry? 
Besides,  if  you'd  had  a  watch,  you'd  have 
had  to  carry  it  in  your  teeth.  You  know  per 
fectly  well  you  would  n't  have  brought  it, 
anyway." 

"Well  —  then,  at  least  when  we  got  back, 
we  should  have  known  whether  we  ought  to 
have  been  hungry  or  not.  Now  we  shall  never 
know." 

"Never!  Oh!  Look  there,  Jonathan! 
We  're  going  to  catch  it  J "  A  sense  of  growing 
shadow  in  the  air  had  made  me  look  up,  and 
there,  back  of  the  steep-rising  woods,  hung  a 
blue-black  cloud,  with  ragged  edges  crawling 
out  into  the  brightness  of  the  sky. 

"Sure  enough!  The  bass '11  bite  now,  if  it 
really  comes.  Wait  till  the  first  drops,  and 
see  what  you  see." 

We  had  not  long  to  wait.  There  came  that 
sudden  expectancy  in  the  air  and  the  trees, 


150  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

the  strange  pallor  in  the  light,  the  chill  sweep 
of  wind  gusts  with  warm  pauses  between. 
Then  a  few  big  drops  splashed  on  the  dusty, 
sun-baked  stones  about  us. 

"Now!  Wade  right  out  there,  to  the  edge 
of  that  ledge  —  don't  slip  over,  it 's  deep. 
I'll  go  down  a  little  way." 

I  waded  out  carefully,  and  cast,  in  the 
smooth,  dark  water  already  beginning  to  be 
rain-pocked.  It  was  surprisingly  shivery,  that 
storm  wind!  I  glanced  toward  shore  to  look 
for  shelter  —  I  remembered  an  overhanging 
ledge  of  rock  —  then  my  line  went  taut !  I 
forgot  about  shelter,  forgot  about  being 
chilly;  I  knew  it  was  a  good  bass. 

I  got  him  in  —  too  big  to  go  through  the 
hole  in  my  creel  —  cast  for  another  —  and 
another  —  and  yet  another.  The  rain  began 
to  fall  in  sheets,  and  the  wind  nearly  blew  me 
over,  but  who  could  run  away  from  such 
fishing?  The  surface  of  the  river,  deep  blue- 
gray,  seemed  rising  everywhere  in  little  jets 
to  meet  the  rain.  Rapids,  eddies,  still  waters, 
weedy  edges,  all  looked  alike;  there  were 
neither  waves  nor  swirls  nor  glassy  slicks, 
but  all  were  roughly  furry  under  the  multi- 


WITHOUT  THE  TIME   OF   DAY      151 

tudinous  assaults  of  the  fierce  rain-drops. 
The  sky  was  mottled  lead-color,  the  wind 
blew  less  strongly,  but  cold  —  cold.  And 
under  that  water  the  bass  were  biting,  my  rod 
was  bending  double,  my  reel  softly  screaming 
as  I  gave  line,  and  one  after  another  I  drew 
the  fish  alongside  and  dipped  them  out  with 
my  landing  net. 

Then,  as  suddenly  as  they  had  begun,  they 
stopped  biting.  I  waited  long  minutes; 
nothing  happened,  and  all  at  once  I  realized 
that  I  was  very  wet  and  very  cold.  Wading 
ashore,  I  saw  Jonathan  shivering  along  up 
the  narrow  beach  toward  me,  his  shoulders 
drawn  in  to  half  their  natural  spread,  neck 
tucked  in  between  his  collar-bones,  knees 
slightly  bent. 

"You  can't  be  cold?"  I  questioned  as  soon 
as  he  was  near  enough  to  hear  me  through 
the  slash  of  the  rain  and  wind. 

"No,  of  course  not;  are  you?" 

We  did  n't  discuss  it,  but  ran  up  the  bank 
to  the  rock-ledge  and  crouched  under  it,  our 
teeth  literally  chattering. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  fishing?"  I  man 
aged  to  stammer. 


152  MOUE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Great!  But  oh,  why  didn't  I  bring  the 
whiskey  bottle?" 

"Let 's  run  for  camp !  We  can't  be  wetter." 

We  crawled  out  into  the  rain  again,  and 
first  sprinted  and  then  dog-trotted  along  the 
river  edge.  No  bird  notes  now  in  the  woods 
beside  us,  no  whirring  of  wings;  only  the  rain 
sounds:  soft  swishings  and  drippings  and 
gusty  showerings,  very  different  from  the 
flat,  flicking  sounds  when  rain  first  starts  in 
dry  woods. 

Camp  looked  a  little  cheerless,  but  a  blaz 
ing  fire,  started  with  dry  stuff  we  had  stowed 
inside  the  tent,  changed  things,  and  dry 
clothes  changed  them  still  more,  and  we  sat 
within  the  tent  flaps  and  ate  ginger-snaps  in 
great  contentment  of  spirit  while  we  waited 
for  the  rain  to  stop. 

It  did  stop,  and  very  soon  the  fish  were 
sizzling  in  the  pan. 

"Of  course,  if  we  had  a  watch,  now — " 
suggested  Jonathan,  as  he  carefully  tucked 
under  the  pan  little  sticks  of  just  the  right 
length. 

"What  should  we  know  more  than  we  do 
now  —  that  we're  hungry?"  I  asked. 


WITHOUT   THE   TIME  OF  DAY       153 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  we'd  know  what 
time  it  is,"  replied  Jonathan  tranquilly. 

" And  for  another  we'd  know  whether  it's 
dinner  or  supper  I'm  cooking,"  I  supple 
mented.  "But  does  it  matter?  Youw^on'tget 
anything  different,  no  matter  which  it  is  — 
just  fish  is  what  you  '11  get.  And  pretty  soon 
the  sun  will  be  out,  and  you  can  set  up  a 
stick  and  watch  the  shadow  and  make  a  sun 
dial  for  yourself." 

"Oh,  I  don't  really  care  which  it  is." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  don't  know  that!  And 
meanwhile,  you  might  cut  the  bread  and 
make  some  toast,  —  there  are  some  good 
embers  on  your  side  under  the  pan,  —  and 
I'll  get  the  butter,  and  there  we'll  be." 

By  the  time  the  toast  was  made  and  the 
fish  curling  brownly  away  from  the  pan,  the 
sun  had  indeed  come  out,  at  first  pale  and 
watery,  then  clear,  and  still  high  enough  in 
the  heavens  to  set  the  soaked  earth  steaming 
fragrantly  with  its  heat.  Odors  of  hemlock 
and  wet  earth  mingled  with  odors  of  toast 
and  fried  fish. 

"Um-m!  Smell  it  all!  "I  said.  "What  a  lot 
we  should  miss  if  we  did  n't  eat  in  the  kitchen!" 


154  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Or  cook  in  the  dining-room  —  which?" 

"And  hear  that  song  sparrow!  Does  n't  it 
sound  as  if  the  rain  had  washed  his  song  a 
little  cleaner  and  clearer?" 

There  followed  the  wonderful  afterlight 
that  a  short,  drenching  rain  leaves  behind  it 
—  a  hush  of  light,  deeply  pervasive  and 
friendly.  The  sunshine  slanted  across  the 
gleaming  wet  rocks  in  the  river,  lit  up  the 
rain-darkened  trunks  of  the  hemlocks,  glinted 
on  the  low-hanging  leaves,  and  flashed  through 
the  dripping  edges  of  sagging  fern  fronds.  As 
twilight  came  on,  we  canoed  across  to  the  side 
of  the  river  where  the  road  lay — the  other  side 
was  steep  and  pathless  woods —  and  walked 
down  to  the  nearest  farmhouse  to  buy  eggs  for 
the  morning.  Back  again  by  the  light  of  a 
low-hung  moon,  and  across  the  dim  water  to 
our  own  island  and  the  embers  of  our  fire. 

"Oh,  Jonathan!  We  never  asked  them 
what  time  it  was ! "  I  said.  "I  meant  to  —  for 
your  sake  —  I  thought  you  'd  sleep  better  if 
you  knew." 

"Too  bad!  Probably  I  should  have.  I 
thought  of  it,  of  course,  but  was  afraid  that 
if  I  asked  it  would  spoil  your  day." 


WITHOUT  THE   TIME  OF   DAY      155 

"It  would  take  something  pretty  bad  to 
spoil  a  day  like  this  one,"  I  said. 

Two  days  later  the  weather  turned  still  and 
warm,  the  bass  refused  to  bite,  and  even  the 
sunfish  lay,  shy  or  wary  or  indifferent,  in 
their  shallow,  sunny  pools,  so  we  resolved  to 
walk  down  the  river  to  the  post-office,  four 
miles  away,  for  possible  mail.  As  we  sat  on 
the  steps  of  the  little  store,  looking  it  over,  — 
"Here's  news,"  said  Jonathan;  "Jack  and 
Molly  say  they  '11  run  up  if  we  want  them, 
day  after  to-morrow  —  up  on  the  morning 
train,  and  back  on  the  evening." 

"Good!  Tell  them  to  come  along." 

"No  —  it's  to-morrow — letter's  been  here 
since  yesterday.  I'll  telegraph." 

As  we  tramped  home  we  planned  the  day. 
"We'll  meet  them  and  all  walk  up  together," 
said  Jonathan. 

"We'd  better  catch  some  bass  and  leave 
them  all  hooked  in  a  pool,  ready  for  them  to 
pull  out,"  I  added;  "otherwise  they  may  not 
catch  any.  And  maybe  you'd  better  meet 
them  and  I'll  have  dinner  ready  when  you 
get  back." 


156  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Nonsense!  You  come,  and  we'll  all  get 
dinner  when  we  get  back.  That's  what 
they  're  coming  for  —  to  see  the  whole  thing." 

"But  if  it's  late  —  they've  got  to  get  back 
for  that  down  train." 

"Well  — time  enough." 

"Oh,  Jonathan!  What  about  catching  that 
train?" 

"They  '11  have  watches  —  watches  that 
go." 

"But  what  about  our  meeting  them?  The 
train  arrives  at  10.15,  they  said.  What  does 
10.15  look  like  in  the  sky,  I  wonder!" 

"Or  rather,  what  does  8.45  look  like?   It 
takes  an  hour  and  a  half  to  get  there,  count 
ing  crossing  the  river." 

"Yes  —  dear  me!  Well,  Jonathan,  we'll 
just  have  to  get  up  early  and  go,  and  then 
wait." 

"Or  else  take  our  watch  to  the  farmhouse 
and  set  it." 

"Jonathan,  I  will  not!  I'd  rather  start  at 
daylight." 

Which  was  very  nearly  what  we  did.  The 
morning  opened  with  a  sun  obscured,  and  I 
felt  sure  it  was  stealing  a  march  on  us  and 


WITHOUT   THE  TIME   OF   DAY       157 

would  suddenly  burst  out  upon  us  from  a 
noonday  sky.  We  breakfasted  hastily,  ferried 
across  to  shore,  and  set  a  swinging  pace  down 
the  road.  As  we  walked,  the  sun  burned 
through  the  mist,  and  our  shadows  came  out, 
dim,  long  things,  striding  with  the  exagger 
ated  gait  that  shadows  have,  over  the  grassy 
banks  to  our  right. 

"I  think,"  said  Jonathan,  "it  may  be  as 
late  as  seven  o'clock,  but  perhaps  it's  only 


six." 


When  we  reached  the  station,  the  official 
clock  registered  8.30.  We  strolled  over  to  the 
store-and-post-office  and  got  more  letters  — 
one  from  Molly  and  Jack  saying  thank  you 
they'd  come.  "They  don't  entirely  under 
stand  our  mail  system  up  here,"  said  Jona 
than.  We  got  some  ginger-cookies  and  some 
milk  and  had  a  second  breakfast,  and  finally 
wandered  back  to  the  station  to  wait  for  the 
train.  It  came,  bearing  the  expected  two, 
and  much  friendliness.  "Get  our  letter? 
There,  Jack!  He  said  you  wouldn't,  but  I 
said  you  would.  I  made  him  send  it  ... 
four  miles  to  walk?  What  fun!" 
.  It  was  fun,  indeed,  and  all  went  well  until 


158  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

after  dinner,  when  Jack  —  saying,  "Well, 
maybe  we  'd  better  be  starting  back  for  that 
train"  —  drew  out  his  watch.  He  opened  it, 
muttered  something,  put  it  to  his  ear,  then 
began  to  wind  it  rapidly.  He  wound  and 
wound.  We  all  laughed. 

"Looks  as  if  you  had  n't  remembered  to 
wind  it  last  night,"  said  Jonathan,  glancing 
at  me. 

"I  haven't  done  that  in  months,  hang  it! 
Give  me  the  time,  will  you,  Jonathan?"  said 
Jack. 

"Sorry!"  Jonathan  was  smiling  genially. 
"Mine's  run  down  too.  It  stopped  at 
twenty-two  minutes  before  five  —  A.M.,  I 
think." 

"What  luck!  And  Molly  didn't  bring 
hers." 

"You  told  me  not  to,"  Molly  flicked  in. 

"So  here  we  are,"  said  Jonathan,  "en 
tirely  without  the  time  of  day." 

"But  plenty  of  real  time  all  round  us,"  I 
said.  "Let's  use  it,  and  start."  I  avoided 
Jonathan's  eye. 

We  reached  the  station  with  an  hour  and 
ten  minutes  to  spare  —  bought  more  ginger- 


WITHOUT  THE  TIME  OF  DAY   159 

cookies  and  more  milk.  As  we  sat  eating 
them  in  the  midst  of  the  preternatural  calm 
that  marks  a  country  railroad  station  outside 
of  train  times,  Molly  remarked  brightly,  — 

"Well,  I  don't  see  but  we  got  on  just  as 
well  without  a  watch,  did  n't  we,  Jack?  Why 
do  we  need  watches,  anyway?  Do  you  see?" 
she  turned  to  us.  "Jack  does  everything  by 
his  watch  —  eats  and  breathes  and  sleeps  by 
it—" 

Jack  returned,  watch  in  hand  —  he  had 
been  getting  railroad  time  from  the  telegraph 
operator.  "Want  to  set  yours  while  you 
think  of  it?"  he  asked  Jonathan. 

"Sorry  —  thank  you  —  didn't  bring  it," 
said  Jonathan. 

"By  George,  man,  what '11  you  do?"  Real 
consternation  sounded  in  Jack's  tones. 

"Oh,  we'll  get  along  somehow,"  said  Jon 
athan.  "You  see,  we  don't  have  many  en 
gagements,  except  with  the  bass,  and  they 
never  meet  theirs,  anyhow." 

When  the  train  had  gone,  I  said,  "Jona 
than,  why  did  n't  you  tell  them  it  was  my 
whim?" 

"Oh,  I  just  did  n't,"  said  Jonathan. 


160  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

As  Jonathan  had  predicted,  we  did  get 
along  somehow  —  got  along  rather  well,  on 
the  whole.  There  are,  of  course,  some  draw 
backs  to  an  un watched  life.  You  never  want 
to  start  the  next  meal  till  you  are  hungry, 
and  after  that  it  takes  one  or  two  or  three 
hours,  as  the  case  may  be,  to  go  back  to 
camp  and  get  the  meal  ready,  and  by  that 
time  you  are  almost  hungrier  than  you  like 
being.  But  except  for  this,  and  the  little 
matter  of  meeting  trains,  it  is  rather  pleasant 
to  break  away  from  the  habit  of  watching  the 
watch,  and  it  was  with  real  regret  that,  on  the 
last  night  of  our  camp,  we  took  our  watch 
to  the  farmhouse  to  set  it. 

"Run  down,  did  it?  Guess  you  forgot  to 
wind  it.  Well  —  we  do  forget  things  some 
times,  all  of  us  do,"  the  farmer's  wife  said 
comfortingly  as  she  went  to  look  at  the  clock. 
"Twenty  minutes  to  seven,  our  clock  says. 
It 's  apt  to  be  fast,  so  I  guess  you  won't  miss 
any  trains.  Father  he  says  he'd  rather  have 
a  clock  fast  than  slow  any  day,  but  it  don't 
often  get  more  than  ten  minutes  wrong  either 
way." 

And  to  us,  after  our  two  weeks  of  camp, 


WITHOUT  THE   TIME   OF  DAY      161 

ten  minutes'  error  in  a  clock  seemed  indeed 
slight. 

"Jonathan,"  I  said,  as  we  walked  back 
along  the  road,  "I  hate  to  go  back  to  clock 
time.  I  like  real  time  better." 

"You  couldn't  do  so  many  things  in  a 
day,"  said  Jonathan. 

"No  —  maybe  not." 

"But  maybe  that  would  n't  matter." 

"Maybe  it  would  n't,"  I  said. 


VIII 

The  Ways  of  Griselda 

"  OF  course  you  don't  know  what  her  name 
is,"  I  said,  as  we  stood  examining  the  sleek 
little  black  mare  Jonathan  had  just  brought 
up  from  the  city. 

"No.  Forgot  to  ask.  Don't  believe  they 'd 
have  known  anyway  —  one  of  a  hundred  or 


so." 


"Well,  we'll  name  her  again.  Dear  me  — 
she's  rather  plain!  Probably  she's  useful." 

"Hope  so,"  said  Jonathan.  Then,  stepping 
back  a  little,  in  a  slightly  grieved  tone,  "But 
I  don't  call  her  plain.  Wait  till  she 's  groomed 
up- 

"It's  that  droop  of  her  neck  —  sort  of  pa 
tient  —  and  the  way  she  drops  one  of  her 
hips  —  if  they  are  hips." 

"But  we  want  a  horse  to  be  patient." 

"Yes.  I  don't  know  that  I  care  about  hav 
ing  her  look  so  terribly  much  so  as  this.  I 
think  I'll  call  her  Griselda." 


THE  WAYS  OF  GRISELDA  163 

"Now,  why  Griselda?" 

"Why,  don't  you  know?  She  was  that 
patient  creature,  with  the  horrid  husband 
who  had  to  keep  trying  to  see  just  how  pa 
tient  she  was.  It's  a  hateful  story  —  enough 
to  turn  any  one  who  brooded  on  it  into  a  mili 
tant  suffragette." 

"But  you  can't  call  a  horse  Griselda  — 
not  for  common  stable  use,  you  know." 

"Call  her  'Griz'  for  short.  It  does  very 
well." 

Jonathan  jeered  a  little,  but  in  the  family 
the  name  held.  Our  man  Hiram  said  noth 
ing,  but  I  think  in  private  he  called  her 
"Fan"  or  "Beauty"  or  "Lady,"  or  some 
such  regulation  stable  name. 

Called  by  any  name,  she  pleased  us,  and 
she  was  patient.  She  trotted  peacefully  up 
hill  and  down,  she  did  her  best  at  ploughing 
and  haymaking  and  all  the  odd  jobs  that  the 
farm  supplied.  She  stood  when  we  left  her, 
with  that  same  demure,  almost  overdone 
droop  of  the  neck  that  I  had  first  noticed. 
When  I  met  Jonathan  at  the  station,  she 
stood  with  her  nose  against  a  snorting  train, 
looking  as  if  nothing  could  rouse  her. 


164  MORE  JONATHAN   PAPERS 

"Good  little  horse  you  got  there,"  re 
marked  the  station  agent.  "  Where  'd  you 
find  her?" 

"Oh,  I  picked  her  out  of  a  bunch  down  in 
the  city,"  said  Jonathan  casually.  "I  did  n't 
think  I  knew  much  about  horses,  but  I  guess 
I  was  in  luck  this  time." 

"  Guess  you  know  more  about  horses  than 
you're  sayin'."  And  Jonathan,  thus  pressed, 
admitted  with  suitable  reluctance  that  he 
had  now  and  then  been  able  to  detect  a  good 
horse  by  his  own  observation. 

On  the  way  home  he  openly  congratu 
lated  himself  on  his  find.  "I  really  wasn't 
sure  I  knew  how  to  pick  out  a  horse,"  he  re 
marked,  in  a  glow  of  retrospective  modesty, 
"but  I  certainly  got  a  treasure  this  time." 

Griz  had  been  with  us  about  two  weeks, 
and  all  went  well.  Then  another  horse  was 
needed  for  farm  work,  and  one  was  sent  up 
—  one  Kit  by  name  —  a  big,  pleasant,  rather 
stupid  brown  mare. 

"They  do  say  two  mares  don't  git  on  so 
well  together  as  a  mare  'n  a  horse,"  remarked 
Hiram. 

"But  these  are  both  such  quiet  creatures," 


THE   WAYS  OF  GRISELDA  165 

I  protested,  to  which  Hiram  made  no  an 
swer.  Hiram  seldom  made  an  answer  unless 
fairly  cornered  into  it. 

For  two  or  three  days  after  the  new  arri 
val  nothing  happened,  so  far  as  we  knew, 
except  that  Griz  always  laid  her  ears  back, 
and  looked  queer  about  her  under  lip,  when 
ever  Kit  was  led  in  or  out  of  the  stall  next 
her,  while  Kit  always  huddled  up  close  to 
her  manger  whenever  Griz  was  led  past  her 
heels.  Once  or  twice  Griz  slipped  her  halter 
in  the  stall,  and  Hiram  said  there  was  a  place 
on  Kit  that  looked  as  if  she  had  been  kicked, 
but  when  we  scrutinized  Griz,  neck  a-droop 
and  eyes  a-blink,  we  found  it  hard  to  think 
ill  of  her.  Besides,  Jonathan  was  now  fairly 
committed  to  the  opinion  that  he  had  "got 
a  treasure  this  time."  "Kit  may  have  hurt 
herself  lying  down,"  he  suggested,  and  again 
Hiram  made  no  answer. 

Then  one  night,  sometime  during  the  very 
small,  very  dark,  and  very  sleepy  hours,  we 
were  awakened  by  awful  sounds.  "What  is 
it?  What  is  it?"  I  gasped. 

Crash!  Bang!  Boom!  The  trampling  of 
hoofs!  —  heavy,  hollow  pounding!  —  the 


166  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

tearing  and  splintering  of  wood !  —  all  com 
ing  from  the  barn,  though  loud  enough,  in 
deed,  to  have  come  from  the  next  room. 

Jonathan  was  up  in  an  instant  muttering, 
"Where  are  my  rubber  boots?  —  and  my 
coat?" 

' '  Jonathan !  what  a  combination ! ' ' 

But  he  was  gone,  and  I  heard  the  snap  of 
the  lantern  and  the  slam  of  the  back  door 
almost  before  the  rocking-chair  in  the  sitting- 
room  that  he  had  hit  —  and  talked  to  —  had 
stopped  rocking.  Then  I  heard  him  calling 
outside  Hiram's  window  and  then  he  ran 
past  our  window,  out  to  the  barn.  I  wished 
he  had  waited  for  Hiram,  but  I  had  an  under 
current  of  pleasure  in  hearing  him  run.  Jon 
athan's  theory  is  that  there  is  never  any 
hurry,  and  now  and  then  I  like  to  have  this 
notion  jolted  up  a  little. 

Meanwhile  the  awful  sounds  had  ceased. 
There  was  the  rumble  of  the  stable  door,  a 
pause,  and  Jonathan's  voice  in  conversa 
tional  tones.  Next  came  the  flashing  of  Hi 
ram's  lantern,  and  the  tromp,  tromp,  tromp, 
in  much  quicker  tempo  than  usual,  of  Hi 
ram's  heavy  boots.  Hiram's  theory  was  a 


THE  WAYS  OF  GRISELDA  167 

good  deal  like  Jonathan's,  so  this  also  gave 
me  pleasure.  Finally,  there  came  the  flash 
of  another  lantern,  and  I  recognized  the 
quick,  short  step  of  Mrs.  Hiram.  I  smiled  to 
myself,  picturing  the  meeting  between  her  and 
Jonathan,  for  I  knew  just  how  Jonathan  was 
costumed.  In  two  minutes  I  heard  her  steps 
repassing,  and  in  five  minutes  Jonathan  re 
turned.  He  was  chuckling  quietly. 

"I  guess  Griz  got  all  she  needed  —  did  n't 
know  either  of  'em  had  so  much  spunk  in  'em." 

"What  happened?" 

"Don't  know,  exactly,  but  when  I  opened 
that  door,  there  was  Griz,  just  inside,  no  hal 
ter  on,  head  down,  meek  as  Moses,  as  far 
away  from  Kit's  heels  as  she  could  get — she's 
got  the  mark  of  them  on  her  leg  and  her  flank." 

"Is  she  hurt?  — or  Kit?" 

"No,  not  so  far  as  we  can  see,  not  to 
amount  to  anything  —  except  maybe  Griz's 
feelings." 

"And  what  about  Mrs.  Hiram's  feelings?" 

Jonathan  laughed  aloud.  "I  was  inside 
with  Kit,  and  she  called  out  to  know  if  she 
could  help." 

"And  what  did  you  say?" 


168  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"I  said,  'Not  on  your  life.'  " 

"So  that  was  why  she  came  back.  Did  you 
really  say,  '  Not  on  your  life,'  or  did  you  only 
imply  it  in  your  tone,  while  you  actually  said, 
'No,  thank  you  very  much'?" 

"I  really  said  it.  At  least,  I  don't  remem 
ber  conversations  the  way  you  do,  but  I  did 
n't  feel  a  bit  like  thanking  anybody,  and  I 
don't  believe  I  did." 

"Well,  I  wish  I'd  heard  you.  One  misses  a 
good  deal  — " 

"You  can  see  the  stable  to-morrowT.  That 
'11  keep.  They  must  have  had  a  time  of  it! 
The  walls  are  marked  and  splintered  as  high 
as  I  can  reach.  And  I  don't  believe  Kit '11 
cringe  when  Griz  passes  her  any  more." 

"Of  course  you  remember  Hiram  said  two 
mares  did  n't  usually  get  on  very  well,  and 
even  when  they're  chosen  by  a  good  judge  of 
horses — " 

After  that  the  two  did  get  along  peaceably 
enough,  and  Jonathan  assured  me  that  all 
horses  had  these  little  affairs.  One  day  we 
drove  over  to  the  main  street  of  the  village  on 
an  errand. 


THE  WAYS  OF  GRISELDA  169 

"Will  she  stand?"  I  questioned. 

"Better  hitch  her,  perhaps,"  said  Jona 
than,  getting  out  the  rope.  He  snapped  it 
into  her  bit-ring,  then  threw  the  other  end 
around  a  post  and  started  to  make  a  half- 
hitch.  But  as  he  drew  up  the  rope  it  was  sud 
denly  jerked  out  of  his  hand.  He  looked  up 
and  saw  Griselda's  patient  head  waving  high 
above  him  on  the  end  of  an  erect  and  rebel 
lious  neck,  the  hitch-rope  waggling  in  loops 
and  spirals  in  the  air,  and  the  whole  outfit 
backing  away  from  him  with  speed  and  de 
cision.  He  was  so  astonished  that  he  did 
nothing,  and  in  a  moment  Griz  had  stopped 
backing  and  stood  still,  her  head  sagging 
gently,  the  rope  dangling. 

"Well  — I'll  — be-  I  didn't  try  to 
remember  just  what  Jonathan  said  he  would 
be,  because  it  does  n't  really  matter.  We 
both  stared  at  Griz  as  if -we  had  never  seen  her 
before.  Griz  looked  at  nothing  in  particular, 
she  blinked  long  lashes  over  drowsy,  dark 
eyes,  and  sagged  one  hip. 

"She's  trying  to  make  believe  she  did  n't 
do  it  —  but  she  did,"  I  said. 

"Something  must  have  startled  her,"  said 


170  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

Jonathan,  peering  up  and  down  the  deserted 
street.  Two  roosters  were  crowing  antipho- 
nally  in  near-by  yards,  and  a  dog  was  barking 
somewhere  far  off. 

"What?  "I  said. 

"You  never  can  tell,  with  a  horse." 

"No,  apparently  not,"  I  said,  smiling  to 
myself;  and  I  added  hastily,  as  I  saw  Jona 
than  go  forward  to  her  head,  "Don't  try  it 
again,  please!  I'll  stay  by  her  while  you  go 
in.  Please!"  For  I  had  detected  on  Jonathan's 
face  a  look  that  I  very  well  knew.  It  was  the 
same  expression  he  had  worn  that  Sunday  he 
led  the  calf  to  pasture.  He  made  no  answer, 
but  stood  examining  the  hitch-rope. 

"No  use,"  he  said,  quietly  releasing  it  and 
tossing  its  coil  into  the  carriage,  "It's  too 
rotten.  If  it  snapped,  she'd  be  ruined." 

I  breathed  freer.  I  privately  hoped  that  all 
the  hitch-ropes  at  the  farm  were  rotten. 

"  Griz  stands  perfectly  well  without  hitch 
ing,"  I  said  as  we  drove  home,  "Why  do  you 
force  an  issue?" 

"I  did  n't.  She  did.  She's  beaten  me.  If 
I  don't  hitch  her  now,  she  '11  know  she 's  mas 
ter." 


THE  WAYS  OF  GRISELDA  171 

"Oh,  dear!"  I  sighed.  "Let  her  be  mas 
ter!  Where's  the  harm?  It's  just  your  van- 

ity." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Jonathan. 

When  he  agrees  with  me  like  that  I  know 
it's  hopeless. 

The  next  night  he  wheeled  in  at  the  big  gate 
bearing  about  his  shoulders  a  coil  of  heavy 
rope. 

"It  looks  like  a  ship's  cable,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  he  responded,  leaning  his  bicycle 
against  his  side,  and  swinging  the  coil  over 
his  head.  "I  want  it  for  mooring  purposes. 
Think  it '11  moor  Griz?" 

"Jonathan!"  I  exclaimed,  "y°u  won't!" 

"Watch  me,"  said  Jonathan,  and  he  pro 
ceeded  to  explain  to  me  the  working  of  the 
tackle. 

One  end  had  a  ring  in  it,  and  as  nearly  as 
I  remember,  the  plan  was  to  put  the  rope 
around  her  body,  under  what  would  be  her 
arm-pits  if  she  had  arm-pits,  —  horses'  joints 
are  never  called  what  one  would  expect,  of 
course,  —  run  the  end  through  the  ring,  then 
forward  between  her  legs  and  through  the  bit- 
ring. 


172  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"Then,  when  she  sets  back,  it  cuts  her  in 
two/'  he  concluded  cheerfully. 

"But  you  don't  want  her  in  two,"  I  pro 
tested. 

"She  won't  set  back,"  he  responded;  "at 
least,  not  more  than  once.  To-morrow's  Sun 
day;  I'll  have  to  hitch  her  at  church." 

I  hoped  it  would  rain,  so  we  need  n't  go, 
but  we  were  having  a  drought  and  the  morn 
ing  dawned  cloudless.  We  reached  the  church 
just  on  the  last  stroke  of  the  bell.  The  women 
were  all  within;  the  men  and  boys  lounging 
in  the  vestibule  were  turning  reluctant  feet 
to  follow  them. 

"You  go  right  in,"  said  Jonathan,  "I'll  be 


in  soon.': 


I  turned  to  protest,  but  he  was  already 
driving  round  to  the  side,  and  a  hush  had 
fallen  over  the  congregation  within  that  made 
it  embarrassing  to  call.  Besides,  one  of  the 
deacons  stood  holding  open  the  door  for  me. 

I  slipped  into  a  pew  near  the  back,  with 
the  apologetic  feeling  one  often  has  in  an  old 
country  church  —  a  feeling  that  one  is  mak 
ing  the  ghosts  move  along  a  little.  They  did 
move,  of  course,  —  probably  ghosts  are  al- 


THE  WAYS  OF  GRISELDA  173 

ways  polite  when  one  really  meets  them,  — 
and  I  sat  down.  Indeed,  I  was  thinking  very 
little  of  ghosts  that  day,  or  of  the  minister 
either.  My  ears  were  cocked  to  catch  and 
interpret  all  the  noises  that  came  in  through 
the  open  windows  on  my  left.  My  eyes  wan 
dered  in  that  direction,  too,  though  the  clear 
panes  revealed  nothing  more  exciting  than 
flickering  maple  leaves  and  a  sky  filmed  over 
by  veils  of  cloud. 

The  moralists  tell  us  that  what  we  get  out 
of  any  experience  depends  upon  what  we 
bring  to  it.  What  I  brought  to  it  that  morn 
ing  was  a  mind  agog,  attuned  to  receive  these 
expected  outside  sounds.  To  all  such  sounds 
the  service  within  was  merely  a  background 
—  a  background  which  did  n't  know  its 
place,  since  it  kept  pushing  itself  more  or 
less  importunately  into  the  foreground.  I  sat 
there,  of  course,  with  perfect  propriety  of 
demeanor,  but  my  reactions  were  something 
like  this :  — 

Hymn  912  ...  seven  stanzas!  horrors!  oh! 
omit  the  3d,  5th,  and  6th  —  well,  I  should 
hope  so!  ...  I  can't  hear  a  thing  while  this 
is  going  on!  ...  He  hasn't  come  in  yet! 


174  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

Scripture  reading  for  to-day  —  why  can't  he 
give  us  the  passage  and  let  us  read  it  for  our 
selves?  —  well,  his  voice  is  rather  high  and 
uneven,  I  think  I  could  make  out  Jonathan's 
through  the  loopholes  in  it.  .  .  .  There !  What 
was  that,  I  wonder!  Sounded  like  shouting, 
—  oh,  why  can't  he  talk  softly!  Let  us  unite 
in  prayer.  Ah!  now  we'll  have  a  long,  quiet 
time,  anyway!  ...  if  only  he  would  n't  pray 
quite  so  loud!  Why  pray  aloud  at  all,  any 
way?  I  like  the  Quaker  way  best:  a  good  long 
strip  of  silence,  where  your  thoughts  can 
wash  around  in  any  fashion  that —  There! 
No  —  yes  —  no  —  it's  just  people  going  by 
on  the  road.  .  .  .  Maybe  he's  in  the  back  of 
the  church  now,  waiting  for  the  close  of  the 
prayer.  Seems  as  if  I  had  to  look.  .  .  .  Well, 
he  is  n't.  .  .  .  For  thy  name's  sake,  amen. 

And  then  the  collection,  with  an  organ 
voluntary  the  while  —  now  why  an  organ 
voluntary?  Why  not  leave  people  to  their 
thoughts  some  of  the  time? 

And  at  last,  the  sermon: — The  text  to 
which  I  wish  to  call  your  attention  this  morn 
ing —  my  attention,  forsooth!  My  atten 
tion  was  otherwise  occupied.  Ah!  A  puff  of 


THE  WAYS  OF  GRISELDA  175 

warm,  sweet  air  from  behind  me,  and  the  soft, 
padding  noise  of  the  swinging  doors,  ap 
prised  me  of  an  incomer.  A  cautious  tread  in 
the  aisle  —  I  moved  along  a  little  to  make 
room. 

In  a  city  church  probably  I  should  have 
thrown  propriety  to  the  winds  and  had  the 
gist  of  the  story  out  of  him  at  once,  but  in  a 
country  church  there  are  always  such  listen 
ing  spaces,  —  the  very  pew-backs  and  cush 
ions  seem  attentive,  the  hymnals  creak  in  their 
racks,  and  the  little  stools  cry  out  nervously 
when  one  barely  touches  them.  It  was  too 
much  for  me.  I  was  coerced  into  an  outer 
semblance  of  decorum.  However,  I  snatched 
a  hasty  glance  at  Jonathan's  face.  It  was 
quite  red  and  hot-looking,  but  calm,  very 
calm,  and  I  judged  it  to  be  the  calm,  not  of 
defeat  nor  yet  of  settled  militancy,  but  of 
triumph.  I  even  thought  I  detected  the 
flicker  of  a  grin,  —  the  mere  atmospheric 
suggestion  of  a  grin,  —  as  if  he  felt  the  urgent 
if  furtive  appeal  in  my  glance.  At  any  rate, 
Jonathan  was  all  right,  that  was  clear.  And 
as  to  Griz  —  whether  she  was  still  one  mare  or 
two  half -mares  —  it  did  n't  so  much  matter. 


176  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

And  now  for  the  sermon!  I  gathered  myself 
to  attend. 

As  we  stood  up  for  the  last  hymn,  I  whis 
pered,  "How  did  it  go?" 

"All  right.    She's  hitched,"  was  the  answer. 

After  church  there  was  the  usual  stir  of 
sociability,  and  when  I  emerged  into  the  glare 
of  the  church  steps,  I  saw  Jonathan  driving 
slowly  around  from  the  rear.  Griz  walked 
meekly,  her  head  sagged,  her  eyes  blinked. 

"Good  quiet  little  horse  you've  got  there," 
said  a  deacon  over  my  shoulder;  "don't  get 
restless  standing,  the  way  some  horses  do." 

"Yes,  she's  very  quiet,"  I  said. 

I  got  in,  and  at  last,  as  we  drove  off,  the 
flood-gates  of  my  impatience  broke :  — 

"Well?  "I  said,  — "well?" 

"Well—"  said  Jonathan. 

"Well?   Tell  me  about  it!" 

"I've  told  you.  I  hitched  her." 

"How  did  you  hitch  her?" 

"Just  the  way  I  said  I  would." 

"Did  n't  she  mind?" 

"Don't  know." 

"Did  she  make  a  fuss?" 

"Not  much." 


THE  WAYS  OF  GRISELDA  177 

"What  do  you  mean  by  much?" 

"Oh,  she  set  back  a  little." 

"Do  any  harm?" 

"No." 

"Hurt  herself?" 

"Guess  not." 

"Jonathan,  you  drive  me  distracted  — 
you  have  no  more  sense  for  a  story  — " 

"But  there  was  nothing  in  particular — " 

"Now,  Jonathan,  if  there  was  nothing  in 
particular,  why  did  n't  you  get  into  church 
till  the  sermon  was  begun,  and  why  were  you 
so  red  and  hot?" 

Jonathan  smiled  indulgently.  "Why,  of 
course,  she  did  n't  care  about  being  hitched. 
I  thought  you  knew  that.  But  it  was  per 
fectly  easy." 

And  that  was  about  all  I  could  extract  by 
the  most  artful  questions.  I  took  my  revenge 
by  telling  Jonathan  the  deacon's  compliment 
to  Griz.  "  He  said  she  did  n't  get  restless 
standing,  the  way  so  many  horses  did.  I 
thought  of  mentioning  that  you  were  a  rather 
good  judge  of  horses,  in  an  amateur  way,  but 
then  I  thought  it  might  seem  like  boasting, 
so  I  did  n't." 


178  MORE  JONATHAN   PAPERS 

After  that,  of  course,  I  did  n't  really  de 
serve  to  hear  the  whole  story,  but  the  next 
night  I  happened  to  be  in  the  hammock  while 
Jonathan  was  talking  to  a  neighbor  at  the 
front  gate,  and  he  was  relating  the  incident 
with  detail  enough  to  have  satisfied  the  most 
hungry  gossip.  Only  thus  did  I  learn  that 
Bill  Howard,  who  had  wound  the  rope  twice 
round  the  post  to  give  himself  a  little  leeway, 
was  drawn  right  up  to  the  post  when  she  set 
back;  that  they  had  been  afraid  the  headstall 
would  tear  off;  that  they  had  been  rather 
nervous  about  the  post,  and  other  such  little 
points,  which  I  had  not  been  clever  enough 
to  elicit  by  my  questions. 

Now,  why?  Probably  a  man  likes  to  tell  a 
story  when  he  likes  to  tell  it.  I  find  myself 
wondering  how  much  Odysseus  told  Penelope 
about  his  adventures  when  she  got  him  to 
herself  for  a  good  talk.  Is  it  significant  that 
his  really  long  story  was  told  to  the  King  of 
the  Phseacians? 

As  to  Griz:  —  it  would  perhaps  not  be 
worth  while  to  recount  her  subsequent  his 
tory.  It  was  a  curious  one,  consisting  of 
long  stretches  of  continuous  and  ostentatious 


THE   WAYS  OF   GRISELDA  179 

meekness,  broken  by  sudden  flare-ups  which, 
after  their  occurrence,  always  seemed  in 
credible.  She  never  again  "set  back"  when 
Jonathan  was  the  one  to  hitch  her,  but  this 
was  a  concession  made  to  him  personally,  and 
had  no  effect  on  her  general  habits.  We 
talked  of  changing  her  name,  but  could  never 
manage  it.  We  thought  of  selling  her,  but 
she  was  too  valuable  —  most  of  the  time.  And 
when  we  finally  parted  from  her  our  relief 
was  deeply  tinged  with  regret. 

I  have  sometimes  wondered  whether  such 
flare-ups  were  not  the  natural  and  necessary 
means  of  recuperation  from  such  depths  of 
meekness.  I  have  even  wondered  whether 
the  original  Griselda  may  not  have  —  but 
this  is  not  a  dissertation  on  early  Italian 
poetry,  nor  on  the  nature  of  women. 


IX 

A  Rowboat  Pilgrimage 

WE  were  glad  that  the  plan  of  the  rowboat 
cruise  dawned  upon  us  almost  a  year  before 
it  came  to  pass.  We  were  the  gainers  by  just 
that  rich  length  of  expectancy. 

For  the  joy  that  one  gets  from  any  cher 
ished  plan  is  always  threefold:  there  is  the  joy 
of  looking  forward,  the  joy  of  the  very  doing, 
and  the  joy  of  remembering.  They  are  all 
good,  but  only  the  last  is  eternal.  The  doing 
is  hedged  between  limits,  and  its  pleasures 
are  often  confused,  overlaid  with  alien  or  ac 
cidental  impressions.  The  joy  of  the  forward 
look  is  pure  and  keen,  but  its  bounds,  too, 
are  set.  It  begins  at  the  moment  when  the 
first  ray  of  the  plan-idea  dawns  on  one's 
mind,  and  it  ends  with  the  day  of  fulfillment. 
If  the  dawn  begins  long  before  the  day,  so 
much  the  better. 

It  was  early  fall,  and  we  had  come  in  from 
a  day  by  the  river,  where  we  had  tramped 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  181 

miles  up,  to  one  of  its  infrequent  bridges,  and 
miles  down  on  the  other  bank.  Now  we  sat 
before  the  fire,  talking  it  over. 

"If  we  only  had  a  boat!"  I  said. 

"Boat!  What  do  you  want  a  boat  for? 
You  would  n't  want  to  sit  in  a  boat  all  day." 

"Who  said  I  would?  But  I  want  to  get 
into  it,  and  float  off,  and  get  out  again  some 
where  else.  That's  my  idea  of  a  boat." 

"Oh,  of  course,  a  boat  would  be  handy  — " 

"Handy!  You  talk  as  if  it  was  a  button 
hook!" 

"Well?" 

"Well  —  of  course  it  is  handy  —  as  you 
call  it  —  but  a  boat  means  such  a  lot  of 
things  —  adventure,  romance.  When  you  're 
in  a  boat  —  a  little  boat  —  anything  might 
happen." 

"Yes,"  said  Jonathan,  drawing  the  logs 
together,  "that's  just  the  way  your  family 
feels  about  it  when  you're  young." 

Then  we  both  laughed,  and  there  was  a 
reminiscent  pause. 

"What  became  of  your  boat?"  I  asked 
finally. 

"Sold.  You  kept  yours." 


182  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

"  Yes.  It 's  in  the  cellar,  there  at  Nantucket. 
I  could  have  it  sent  on." 

"Cost  as  much  as  to  buy  a  new  one." 

"A  new  one  wouldn't  be  as  good."  I 
bristled  a  little.  Any  one  who  has  owned  a 
boat  is  very  sensitive  about  its  virtues. 

"How  big?" 

"How  should  I  know?  A  little  boat  — 
maybe  twelve  feet." 

"Two  oars?" 

"Four." 

"Round  bottom?" 

"Yes.   She'd  ride  anything." 

"  Well "  —  Jonathan  suddenly  expanded 
—  "here's  an  idea  now!  How  would  you  like 
to  have  it  sent  on  to  the  mainland,  and  then 
row  it  the  rest  of  the  way  —  along  the  Rhode 
Island  and  Connecticut  shores?" 

I  sat  straight  up.  "Jonathan!  Let's  do  it 
now!" 

Jonathan  chuckled.  "My!  What  a  hurry 
she 'sin!" 

"Well,  let's!" 

"We  could  n't.  The  boat  will  have  to  be 
overhauled  first." 

"Oh,  dear!  I  suppose  so." 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  183 

"We  could  do  it  next  spring,  and  go  up  the 
trout  streams." 

"Think  of  that!"  I  murmured. 

"Or  in  September  and  get  the  shore  hunt 
ing  —  the  salt  marshes." 

"Oh,  which?  — which?"  Already  I  was 
following  our  course  along  curving  beaches 
and  amongst  the  yellow  marshlands.  But 
Jonathan's  mind  was  working  on  more  prac 
tical  details. 

"Twelve  feet,  you  said?" 

"About  that." 

"Pretty  close  stowing  for  our  dunnage  — 
still  —  let's  see  —  two  guns  — " 

"Or  the  rods,  if  we  went  in  the  spring." 

"And  rubber  coats,  and  blankets  — " 

"Jonathan!  Should  we  camp?" 

"Might  have  to." 

"Let's,  anyway." 

"How  does  that  coast-line  run?  Where's 
a  map?" 

All  we  had  were  some  railroad  maps  and  an 
old  school  geography  —  just  enough  to  tan 
talize  us  —  but  we  fell  upon  them  eagerly. 
It  is  curious  what  a  change  comes  over  these 
dumb  bits  of  colored  paper  at  such  times. 


184  MORE   JONATHAN  PAPERS 

Every  curve  of  the  shore,  every  bay  and  head 
land  came  to  life  and  spoke  to  us  —  called  to 
us. 

We  decided  on  the  September  plan,  and  for 
the  next  eleven  months  our  casual  talk  was 
starred  with  inapropos  remarks  like  these:  — 

"Jonathan,  I  know  we  shall  forget  a  can- 
opener." 

"Better  write  it  down  while  you  think  of  it. 
And  have  you  put  down  a  hatchet?" 

"The  camera!  It  is  n't  on  the  list!" 

"  Hang  it !  Those  charts  have  n't  come  yet ! " 

"What  can  we  take  to  look  respectable  in 
when  we  go  ashore?" 

Meanwhile  the  little  boat  was  stirred  out 
of  its  long  sleep  in  the  cellar,  overhauled,  and 
painted,  and  shipped  to  a  port  up  in  Nar- 
ragansett  Bay.  And  on  the  last  day  of  Au 
gust  we  found  ourselves  walking  down  through 
the  little  town.  Following  the  instructions 
of  wondering  small  boys,  we  came  to  a  gate 
in  a  board  fence,  opened  it  and  let  ourselves 
into  a  typical  New  England  seaport  scene  — 
a  tiny  garden,  ablaze  with  sunshine  and  gor 
geous  with  the  yellows  and  lavenders  of  fall 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  185 

flowers,  and  a  narrow  brick  path,  under  a 
grape-vine  arch  leading  down  to  the  sand 
and  the  wharf  and  the  sparkling  blue  waters 
of  the  bay.  As  we  passed  down  through  the 
garden,  we  saw  a  little  boat,  bottom  up,  daz 
zling  white  in  the  sun. 

"There  it  is !"  I  said,  with  a  surge  of  rem 
iniscent  affection. 

"That  little  thing!"  said  Jonathan.    "I 
thought  you  said  twelve  feet." 
1    "Well,  isn't  it?    Anyway,  I  said  about. 
And  it's  big  enough." 

He  was  spanning  its  length  with  his  hands. 

"Eleven  foot  six.  Oh,  I  suppose  she'll  do. 
My  boat  was  fourteen." 

"Now,  don't  be  so  patronizing  about  your 
boat.  Wait  till  you  see  how  mine  behaves." 

He  dropped  the  discussion  and  got  her 
launched.  Is  there  anything  prettier  than  a 
pretty  boat  floating  beside  a  dock! 

The  next  morning  when  we  came  down  we 
found  her  half  full  of  water.  "She'll  be  all 
right  now  she's  soaked  up,"  said  Jonathan, 
and  we  baled  her  dry  and  went  off  to  get  our 
stuff. 

I  delayed  to  buy  provisions,  and  when  I 


186  MORE  JONATHAN   PAPERS 

came  back  I  found  Jonathan  standing  on  the 
fioat  surrounded  by  plunder  of  all  sorts.  He 
answered  my  hail  rather  solemnly. 

"See  here!  When  this  stuff's  all  stowed, 
where  are  we  going  to  sit?  That's  what's 
worrying  me." 

"Why,  won't  it  go  in?" 

"Go!  It  would  n't  go  in  two  boats." 

I  came  down  the  plank.  "Well,  let 's  elim 
inate." 

We  eliminated.  We  took  out  extra  shoes 
and  coats  and  "town  clothes,"  we  cut  down 
as  far  as  we  dared,  and  expressed  a  big 
bundle  home.  The  rest  we  got  into  two 
sailor's  dunnage  bags,  one  waterproof,  the 
other  nearly  so,  and  one  big  water-tight 
metal  box.  Then  there  were  the  guns,  and 
the  provisions,  and  the  charts  in  a  long  tin 
tube,  and  there  was  a  lantern  —  a  clumsy 
thing,  which  we  lashed  to  a  seat.  It  was  al 
ways  in  the  way  and  proved  of  very  little  use, 
but  we  thought  we  ought  to  take  it. 

While  we  worked,,  some  loungers  gathered 
on  the  wharf  above  and  watched  us  with  that 
tolerant  curiosity  that  loungers  know  so  well 
how  to  assume.  As  we  got  in  and  took  up  our 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  187 

oars,  one  of  them  called  out,  "Now,  if  you 
only  had  a  little  motor  there  in  the  stern, 
you'd  be  all  right." 

"Don't  want  one,"  said  Jonathan. 

"What?  Why  not?" 

"Go  too  fast." 

"Eh?  What  say?" 

"Go  — too  — fast." 

"He  heard  you,"  I  said,  "but  he  can't  be 
lieve  you  really  said  it." 

The  oars  fell  into  unison,  there  was  the  dip 
of  their  blades,  the  grating  chunk  of  the  row 
locks  —  dip-ke-chunk,  dip-ke-chunk.  As  we 
fell  into  our  stroke  the  little  boat  began  to 
respond,  the  water  swished  at  her  bows  and 
gurgled  under  her  stern.  The  wharf  fell  away 
behind  us,  the  houses  back  of  it  came  into 
sight,  then  the  wooded  hills  behind.  The 
whole  town  began  to  draw  together,  with  its 
church  steeples  as  its  centers. 

"She  does  go!"  remarked  Jonathan. 

"  I  told  you !  Look  at  us  now !  Look  at  that 
buoy!" 

Dip-ke-chunk,  dip-ke-chunk — the  red  buoy 
swept  by  us  and  dropped  into  the  blue  back 
ground  of  dancing  waves. 


188  MORE  JONATHAN   PAPERS 

"Are  we  really  off  ?  Is  it  really  happening?  " 
I  said  joyously. 

"Do  you  like  it?"  said  Jonathan  over  his 
shoulder. 

"No.  Do  you?"  To  such  unwisdom  of 
speech  do  people  come  when  they  are  happy. 

But  there  were  circumstances  to  steady 
us. 

"What  I'm  wondering,"  said  Jonathan, 
"is,  what's  going  to  happen  next  —  when  we 
get  out  there."  He  tilted  his  head  toward  the 
open  bay,  broad  and  windy,  ahead  of  us. 
"There's  some  pretty  interesting  water  out 
there  beyond  this  lee." 

"Oh,  she'll  take  it  all  right.  It's  no  worse 
than  Nantucket  water.  It  could  n't  be. 
You'll  see." 

We  did  see.  In  half  an  hour  we  were  in  the 
middle  of  upper  Narragansett  Bay,  trying  to 
make  a  diagonal  across  it  to  the  southwest, 
while  the  long  rollers  came  in  steadily  from 
the  south,  broken  by  a  nasty  chop  of  peaked, 
whitecapped  waves.  We  rowed  carefully,  our 
heads  over  our  right  shoulders,  watching 
each  wave  as  it  came  on,  with  broken  com 
ments  :  — 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  189 

"That's  a  good  one  coming  —  bring  her 
up  now  —  there  —  all  right,  now  let  her  off 
again  —  hold  her  so  —  there's  another  com 
ing  —  see?  —  that  big  one,  the  fifth,  the 
fourth,  away  —  row,  now  —  we  beat  it  — 
there  it  goes  off  astern  —  see  it  break ! 
Here 's  another  —  look  out  for  your  oar  —  we 
can't  afford  to  miss  a  stroke  —  oh,  me!  Did 
that  wet  you  too?  My  right  shoulder  is 
soaked  —  my  left  is  n't  —  now  it  is!" 

But  half  an  hour  of  this  sort  of  thing 
brought  about  two  results  —  confidence  in 
the  little  boat,  which  rode  well  in  spite  of 
her  load,  and  confidence  in  each  other's 
rowing.  We  found  that  the  four  oars  worked 
together,  our  early  training  told,  and  we  in 
stinctively  did  the  same  things  in  each  of  the 
varied  emergencies  created  by  wind  and 
wave.  There  was  no  need  for  orders,  and  our 
talk  died  down  to  an  exclamation  now  and 
then  at  some  especially  big  wave,  or  a  laugh 
as  one  of  us  got  a  drenching  from  the  white 
top  of  a  foaming  crest. 

It  was  not  an  easy  day,  that  first  one.  .  .  . 
It  seems,  sometimes,  as  if  there  were  lit 
tle  imps  of  malignity  that  hovered  over  one 


190        F  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

at  the  beginning  of  an  undertaking  —  little 
brownies,  using  all  their  charms  to  try  to  turn 
one  back,  discouraged.  If  there  be  such,  they 
had  a  good  time  with  us  that  long  afternoon. 
First  they  had  said  that  we  should  n't  load 
our  boat.  Then  they  sent  us  rough  water. 
Then  they  set  the  boat  a-leak. 

For  leak  it  did.  The  soaking  over  night 
had  done  no  good.  It  had,  indeed,  been 
"thoroughly  overhauled"  and  pronounced 
seaworthy,  but  there  was  the  water,  too 
much  to  be  accounted  for  as  spray,  swashing 
over  the  bottom  boards,  growing  undeniably 
and  most  uncomfortably  deeper.  The  imps 
made  no  offer  to  bale  for  us,  so  we  had  to  do 
it  ourselves,  losing  the  much-needed  power 
at  the  oars,  while  one  of  us  set  to  work  at  the 
dip-and-toss,  dip-and-toss  motion  so  familiar 
to  any  one  who  has  kept  company  with  a 
small  boat. 

"I  wish  my  mother  could  see  me  now  — " 
hummed  Jonathan. 

"I  wouldn't  wish  that." 

"Why  not?" 

"What  would  they  all  think  of  us  if  they 
could  see  us  this  minute?" 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  191 

"Just  what  they  have  thought  for  a  long 
time." 

I  laughed.  "How  true  that  is,  teacher!" 
I  said. 

Finding  us  still  cheerful,  the  imps  tried 
again. 

"Jonathan  —  do  you  know  —  I  do  believe 
—  my  rowlock  socket  is  working  loose." 

He  cast  a  quick  look  over  his  shoulder 
without  breaking  stroke.  Then  he  said  a  few 
words,  explicit  and  powerful,  about  the  man 
who  had  "overhauled"  the  boat.  "He  ought 
to  be  put  out  in  it,  in  a  sea  like  this,  and  left 
to  row  himself  home." 

"Yes,  of  course,  but  instead,  here  we  are. 
It  won't  last  half  an  hour  longer." 

It  did  not  last  ten  minutes.  There  it  hung, 
one  screw  pulled  loose,  the  other  barely 
holding. 

"Take  my  knife  —  you  can  get  it  out  of 
my  hip  pocket  —  and  try  to  set  up  that  screw 
with  the  big  blade." 

I  did  so,  and  pulled  a  few  strokes.  Then  — 
"It's  come  out  again.  It's  no  use." 

"We  make  blamed  poor  headway  with  one 
pair  of  oars,"  said  Jonathan. 


192  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

He  meditated. 

"Where  are  the  screw-eyes?"  he  said  after 
a  moment. 

"Oh,  good  for  you!  They're  in  the  metal 
box.  I'll  get  them." 

I  drew  in  my  useless  oars,  turned  about 
and  cautiously  wriggled  up  into  the  bow  seat. 

"Look  out  for  yourself!  Don't  bullfrog 
out  over  the  bow.  I  can't  hold  her  any 
steadier  than  this." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right." 

With  one  hand  I  gripped  the  gunwale,  with 
the  other  I  felt  down  into  the  box  and  finally 
fished  out  the  required  treasures.  I  worked 
my  way  back  into  my  own  seat  and  tried  a 
screw-eye  in  the  empty,  rusted-out  hole. 

"Does  it  bite? 

"I  don't  know  about  biting,  but  it's  going 
in  beautifully  —  now  it  goes  hard." 

"Perhaps  I  can  give  it  a  turn." 

"Perhaps  you  can't!  Don't  you  stop  row 
ing.  If  this  boat  wasn't  held  steady,  she'd 
—  I  don't  know  what  she  would  n't  do." 

"If  you  stick  something  through  the  eye 
you  can  turn  it." 

"Yes.  I '11  find  something,  Here's  the  can- 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  193 

opener.  Grand!  There!  It's  solid.  Now  I'll 
do  the  other  one  the  same  way.  Hurrah  for 
the  screw-eyes!" 

"You  thought  of  bringing  them,"  said 
Jonathan  magnanimously. 

"You  thought  of  using  them,"  said  I,  not 
to  be  outdone. 

And  so  again  the  imps  were  foiled.  But 
they  hung  over  us,  they  slapped  us  with 
spray,  they  tossed  the  whitecaps,  jeering,  at 
our  heads,  over  our  shoulders,  into  our  laps. 
They  put  up  the  tides  to  tricks  of  eddies  and 
back-currents,  so  that  they  hindered  instead 
of  helping,  as  by  calculation  they  should 
have  done.  They  laid  invisible  hands  on  our 
oars  and  dragged  them  down,  or  held  them 
up  as  the  wave  raced  by,  so  that  we  missed 
a  stroke.  Once,  in  the  lee  of  an  island,  we 
paused  to  rest  and  unroll  our  chart  and  get 
our  bearings,  while  the  smooth  rise  and  fall 
of  the  ground  swell  was  all  there  was  to  re 
mind  us  of  the  riot  of  water  just  outside. 
Then  we  were  off  again,  and  the  imps  had 
us.  They  were  busy,  those  imps,  all  that  long, 
windy,  wave-tossed,  wonderful  day. 


194  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

For  it  was  wonderful,  and  the  imps  were 
indeed  frustrate,  wholly  frustrate.  We  pulled 
toward  the  quiet  harbor  that  evening  with 
aching  muscles,  hair  and  clothes  matted  with 
salt  water,  but  spirits  undaunted.  Hungry, 
too,  for  we  had  not  been  able  to  do  more  than 
munch  a  few  ship's  biscuit  while  we  rowed. 
Wind,  tide,  waves,  all  against  us,  boat  leak 
ing,  oars  disabled  —  and  still  —  "Isn't  it 
great ! "  we  said,  "  great  —  great ! " 

Dusk  was  closing  in  and  lights  began  to 
blink  along  the  western  shore.  We  beached 
on  a  sandy  point  and  asked  our  way,  —  where 
could  we  put  up  for  the  night?  Children, 
barelegged,  waded  out  around  the  boat, 
looking  at  us  and  our  funny,  laden  craft,  with 
curious  eyes.  Yes,  they  said,  there  was  an 
inn,  farther  up  the  harbor,  where  we  saw 
those  lights  —  ten  minutes'  row,  perhaps. 
We  pulled  off  again,  stiffly. 

"Tired?"  said  Jonathan.    "I'll  take  her 

"Indeed  you  won't!  Of  course  I'm  tired, 
but  I've  got  to  do  something  to  keep  warm. 
And  I  want  to  get  in.  I  want  supper.  They  '11 
all  be  in  bed  if  we  don't  hurry." 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  195 

Our  tired  muscles  lent  themselves  mechani 
cally  to  their  work  and  the  boat  slid  across 
the  quiet  waters  of  the  moonlit  harbor.  The 
town  lights  grew  bigger,  wharves  loomed 
above  us,  and  soon  we  were  gliding  along 
under  their  shadow.  The  eddies  from  our 
oars  went  lap-lap-lapping  off  among  the  great 
dark  spiles  and  stirred  up  the  keen  smell  of 
salt-soaked  timbers  and  seaweed.  Blindly 
groping,  we  found  a  rickety  ladder,  tied  our 
boat  and  climbed  stiffly  up,  and  there  we 
were  on  our  feet  again,  feeling  rather  queer 
and  stretchy  after  seven  hours  in  our  cramped 
quarters. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  were  sitting  in  the 
warm,  clean  kitchen  of  the  old  inn,  and  a 
kindly  but  mystified  hostess  was  mothering 
us  with  eggs  and  ham  and  tea  and  pie  and 
doughnuts  and  other  things  that  a  New 
England  kitchen  always  contains.  While  we 
ate  she  sat  and  rocked  energetically,  ques 
tioning  us  with  friendly  curiosity  and  watch 
ing  us  with  keen  though  benevolent  eyes. 

"Rowed,  did  you?  Jim!"  calling  back  over 
her  shoulder  through  a  half -open  door,  "did 
you  hear  that?  These  folks  have  rowed  all 


196  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

the  way  across  the  bay  this  afternoon  —  yes 
—  rowed.  What  say?  Yes,  she  rowed,  too. 
They  say  they're  goin'  on  to-morrow,  round 
Judith." 

"Say,  now,"  she  finally  appealed  to  us  in 
frank  perplexity,  "what 're  you  doin'  it  for?" 

"We  like  it,"  said  Jonathan  peacefully. 

"Like  it,  do  you?  Well,  now,  if  that  don't 
beat  all!  Say  —  you  know?  I  wouldn't  do 
that,  what  you're  doin',  not  if  you  paid  me. 
Have  another  cup  o'  tea,  do." 

The  next  morning  she  bade  us  good-bye 
with  the  air  of  entrusting  us  to  that  Provi 
dence  which  is  known  to  have  a  special  care 
for  children  and  fools. 

In  fact,  through  all  the  varying  experiences 
of  our  cruise,  one  thing  never  varied.  That 
was,  the  expression  on  the  faces  of  the  people 
we  met.  Wind  and  water  and  coast  and  birds 
all  greeted  us  differently  with  each  new  day, 
but  no  matter  now  many  new  faces  we  met, 
we  found  in  them  always  the  same  look  —  a 
look  at  once  friendly  and  quizzical,  the  look 
one  casts  upon  nice  children  for  whose  antics 
one  is  not  responsible,  the  look  one  casts  upon 
very  small  dogs.  Why?  Is  it  so  odd  a  thing 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  197 

to  like  to  row  a  little  boat?  If  it  had  been  a 
yacht,  now,  or  even  a  motor-boat,  the  ex 
pression  would  have  been  different.  Appar 
ently  the  oars  were  what  did  it. 

On  that  particular  morning,  word  of  our 
doings  must  have  got  abroad,  for  as  we 
stepped  out  on  the  brick  sidewalk  of  the 
shady  main  street  a  little  crowd  was  waiting 
for  us.  It  was  a  funny  procession:  —  Jona 
than  first,  with  the  guns  and  the  water-jug, 
then  a  boy  with  a  wheelbarrow,  on  which 
were  piled  the  two  dunnage  bags,  the  metal 
box,  the  lantern,  the  axe,  the  chart  tube,  and 
a  few  other  things.  An  old  man  and  some 
boys  followed  curiously,  then  I  came,  with 
two  big  baking-powder  cans,  very  gorgeous 
because  the  red  paper  was  not  yet  off  them, 
full  of  provisions  pressed  on  us  by  our  friendly 
hostess.  Tagging  behind  me,  came  an  old 
woman,  a  big  girl,  and  a  half-dozen  children. 
It  was  the  kind  of  escort  that  usually  attends 
the  hand-organ  and  monkey  on  their  infre 
quent  visits. 

We  loaded  up  the  boat  and  pulled  off,  a 
little  stiff  but  fairly  fit  after  all.  The  group 
waved  us  off  and  then  stood  obviously  talk- 


198  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

ing  us  over.  One  of  the  men  called  after  us, 
with  a  sudden  inspiration,  "Pity  ye'  hev  n't 
got  a  motor  in  there!" 

Though  we  did  n't  want  to  be  a  motor- 
boat,  we  were  not  above  receiving  courtesies 
from  one,  and  when  the  Providence  tacitly 
invoked  by  our  hostess  sent  one  chugging 
along  up  to  us,  with  the  proposal  to  take  us 
in  tow,  we  accepted  with  great  contentment. 
The  morning  was  not  half  over  when  we  made 
our  next  landing,  and  looked  up  the  captain 
who  was  to  tow  us  "around  Judith." 

For  in  the  matter  of  Point  Judith  our 
friends  and  advisers  had  been  unanimously 
firm.  There  should  be  a  limit,  they  said,  even 
to  the  foolishness  of  a  holiday  plan.  With  a 
light  boat,  we  might  have  braved  their  dis 
approval,  but  loaded  as  we  were,  we  decided 
to  be  prudent. 

"I'd  hate  to  lose  the  guns,"  said  Jonathan. 

"Yes,  and  the  camera,"  I  added. 

So  we  accepted  the  offer  of  a  good  friend's 
knockabout,  and  sailed  around  the  dreaded 
Point  with  our  little  boat  tailing  behind  at 
the  end  of  her  rope.  We  saw  no  water  that 
we  could  not  have  met  in  her,  but,  as  our 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  199 

friends  did  not  fail  to  point  out,  that  proved 
nothing  whatever. 

At  Stonington  we  were  left  once  more  to 
our  little  boat  and  our  four  oars,  and  there  we 
pulled  her  up  and  caulked  her. 

Strange,  how  we  are  always  trying  to  avoid 
mishaps,  and  yet  when  they  come  we  are  so 
often  glad  of  them!  A  leaky  boat  had  not 
been  in  our  plans,  but  if  we  could  change  that 
first  wild  row  across  the  big  bay,  if  we  could 
cut  out  that  leakiness,  that  puddling  bottom, 
the  difficult  shifts  of  baling  and  rowing,  would 
we?  We  would  not.  Again,  as  we  look  back 
over  the  days  of  our  cruise,  we  could  ill  spare 
those  hours  of  labor  on  the  hot  stretch  of 
sunny  beach  between  the  wharves,  where  we 
bent  half-blinded  over  the  dazzling  white 
boat,  our  spirits  irritated,  our  fingers  aching 
as  they  worked  at  the  push-push-push  of  the 
cotton  waste  between  the  strakes.  We  said 
hard  words  of  the  man  who  thought  he  had 
put  our  boat  in  order  for  us,  and  yet  —  if  we 
could  cut  out  those  hours  of  grumbling  toil, 
would  we?  We  would  not.  For  one  thing,  we 
should  perhaps  have  missed  the  precious 
word  of  advice  given  us  by  a  man  who  sat  and 


200  MORE  JONATHAN  PAPERS 

watched  us.  He  recommended  us  to  put  a 
little  motor  in  the  stern.  He  pointed  out  to 
us  that  rowing  was  pretty  hard  work.  We 
said  we  liked  it.  His  face  wore  the  expression 
I  have  already  described. 

We  launched  her  again  at  dusk.  Next 
morning  Jonathan  was  a  moment  ahead  of 
me  on  the  wharf. 

"Any  water  in  her?"  I  called,  following 
hard. 

"Dry  as  a  bone,"  he  shouted  back,  exult 
ant;  but  as  I  came  up  he  added,  with  his 
usual  conservatism,  "of  course  we  can't  tell 
what  she  may  do  when  she's  loaded." 

But  our  work  held.  For  the  rest  of  the  trip 
we  had  a  dry  boat,  except  for  what  came  in 
over  the  sides. 

Now  that  we  were  in  the  home  State,  we 
got  out  our  guns  and  hugged  the  shore  closely, 
on  the  lookout  for  plover.  We  drifted  some 
times,  while  we  studied  our  maps  for  the  loca 
tion  of  the  salt  marshes.  If  we  were  lucky,  we 
had  broiled  birds  for  luncheon  or  supper;  if 
we  were  not,  we  had  tinned  stuff,  which  is  dis 
tinctly  inferior.  When  we  spent  the  night  at 
an  inn,  we  breakfasted  there,  but  most  of  our 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  201 

meals  were  eaten  along  the  shore,  or,  best  of 
all,  on  some  island. 

"  Can  we  find  an  island  for  lunch  to-day,  do 
you  suppose?  "  I  usually  asked,  as  we  dipped 
our  oars  in  the  morning. 

"Do  you  have  to  have  an  island  for  lunch?  " 

"I  love  an  island!"  choosing  to  ignore  the 
jest.  "That's  one  of  the  best  things  about  a 
boat  —  that  it  takes  you  to  islands." 

"Now,  why  an  island?" 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do.  An  island 
means  —  oh,  it  means  remoteness,  it  means 
quiet  —  possession;  while  you're  on  it,  it's 
yours  —  you  don't  have  every  passer-by 
looking  over  your  shoulder  —  you  have  a 
little  world  all  to  yourself." 

I  could  feel  Jonathan's  indulgent  smile 
through  the  back  of  his  head  as  he  rowed. 

"Well,  you  know  yourself,"  I  argued. 
"Even  a  tiny  bit  of  stone  and  earth,  with 
moss  on  it,  and  a  flower,  out  in  the  middle  of 
a  brook,  looks  different,  somehow,  from  the 
same  things  on  the  bank.  It  is  different  — 
it's  an  island." 

And  so  we  sought  islands  —  sometimes 
little  ones,  all  rocks,  too  little  even  to  have 


MORE  JONATHAN   PAPERS 

collected  driftwood  for  a  fire,  too  little  to  have 
grown  anything  but  wisps  of  beach-grass, 
low  enough  to  be  covered,  perhaps,  by  the 
highest  tides.  Sometimes  it  was  a  larger 
island,  big  enough  to  have  bushes  on  it,  and 
beaches  round  its  edges.  One  of  these  we 
remember  as  best  of  all.  It  lay  a  mile  off 
shore,  a  long  island,  rocky  at  its  ocean  end 
and  at  its  land  end  running  out  to  a  long 
slim  line  of  curving  beach.  In  the  middle  it 
rose  to  a  plateau,  thick-set  with  grass  and 
goldenrod  and  bay  bushes,  from  which 
floated  the  gay,  sweet  voices  of  song  spar 
rows.  Ah!  There  was  an  island  for  you!  And 
we  made  a  fire  of  driftwood,  and  cooked  our 
luncheon,  and  lay  back  on  the  sand  and 
drowsed,  while  the  sea-gulls,  millions  of  them, 
circled  curiously  over  our  heads,  mewing  and 
screaming  as  they  dived  and  swooped,  and 
behind  us  the  notes  of  the  song  sparrows  rose 
sweet. 

If  we  had  had  water  enough  in  our  jug,  we 
should  have  camped  there.  We  rowed  away 
at  last,  slowly,  loving  it,  and  in  our  thoughts 
we  still  possess  it.  As  it  dropped  astern  I 
pulled  in  my  oars  and  stood  up  to  take  its 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  203 

picture  —  no  easy  task,  with  the  boat  mount 
ing  and  plunging  among  the  swells.  But  I 
have  my  picture,  its  horizon  line  at  a  notice 
able  slant,  reminiscent  of  my  unsteady  bal 
ance.  It  means  little  to  other  people,  but  to 
us  it  means  the  sweetness  of  sunshine  and 
wind  and  water,  the  sweetness  of  grass  and 
bird-notes,  all  breathed  over  by  the  spirit  of 
solitude. 

Then  it  melted  away  —  our  island  —  into 
the  waste  of  waters,  and  we  turned  to  look 
toward  the  misty  headlands  beyond  our  bow. 
Where  the  marshlands  were,  we  followed 
them  closely,  but  where  the  shore  was  rocky, 
or,  worse  still,  built  up  with  summer  cot 
tages,  we  often  made  a  straight  course  from 
headland  to  headland,  keeping  well  out,  often 
a  mile  or  two,  to  avoid  tide  eddies.  We  liked 
the  feeling  of  being  far  out,  the  shore  a  dark 
blue,  the  cottages  little  dots.  But  we  liked  it, 
too,  when  the  headland  before  us  grew  large, 
its  rocks  and  bushes  stood  out,  and  we  could 
see  the  white  rip  off  its  point  —  a  rip  to  be 
taken  with  some  caution  if  we  hoped  to  keep 
our  cargo  dry.  And  then,  the  rip  passed,  if 
the  bay  beyond  curved  in  quiet  and  unin- 


204  MORE  JONATHAN   PAPERS 

habited,  how  we  loved  to  turn  and  pull  along 
close  to  shore,  watching  its  beaches  and  sand- 
cliffs  draw  smoothly  away  beside  our  stern, 
or,  best  of  all,  pulling  about  and  running  in 
till  our  bow  grated  and  we  jumped  to  the  wet 
beach  and  ran  up  the  cliff  to  look  about.  Such 
moments  bring  in  a  peculiar  way  the  thrill  of 
discovery.  It  is  one  thing  to  go  along  a  coast 
by  land,  and  learn  its  ways  so.  It  is  a  good 
thing.  But  it  is  quite  another  to  fare  over  its 
waters  and  turn  in  upon  it  from  without, 
surprising  its  secrets  as  from  another  world. 

But  to  do  this,  your  boat  must  be  a  little 
one.  As  soon  as  you  have  a  real  keel,  the  case 
is  altered.  For  a  keel  demands  a  special  land 
ing-place —  a  wharf --and  a  wharf  means 
human  habitation,  and  then  —  where  is  your 
thrill  of  discovery?  Ah,  no!  —  a  little  boat! 
And  you  can  land  anywhere,  among  rocks 
or  in  sandy  shallows;  you  can  explore  the  tide 
creeks  and  marshes  and  the  little  rivers;  you 
can  beach  wherever  you  like,  wherever  the 
rippling  waves  themselves  can  go.  A  little 
boat  for  romance! 

A  little  boat,  but  a  long  cruise,  as  long  as 
may  be.  To  be  sure,  a  boat  and  a  bit  of  water 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  205 

anywhere  is  good.  Even  an  errand  across  the 
pond  and  back  may  be  a  joy.  But  if  you  can, 
now  and  then,  -free  yourself  from  the  there- 
and-back  habit,  the  reward  is  great.  The  joy 
of  pilgrimage  —  of  going,  not  there  and  back, 
but  on,  and  on,  and  yet  on  —  is  a  joy  by  it 
self.  The  thought  that  each  night  brings 
sleep  in  a  new  and  unforeseen  spot,  with  a  new 
journey  on  the  morrow,  gives  special  flavor 
to  the  journeying. 

Not  the  least  among  the  pleasures  of  the 
cruise  were  the  night-camps.  When  the  shore 
looked  inviting,  and  harborage  at  an  inn 
seemed  doubtful,  we  pulled  our  boat  above 
tide-water,  turned  her  over  and  tilted  her  up 
on  her  side  for  a  wind-break,  and  there  we 
spent  the  night.  The  half-emptied  dunnage 
bags  were  our  pillows,  the  sand  was  our  bed. 
Sand,  to  sleep  on,  is  harder  than  one  might 
suppose,  but  it  is  better  than  earth  in  being 
easily  scooped  out  to  suit  one's  needs.  Indeed, 
even  on  a  pneumatic  mattress,  I  should  hardly 
have  slept  much  that  first  night.  It  was  a 
new  experience.  The  great  world  of  waters 
was  so  close  that  it  seemed,  all  night  long, 
like  a  wonderful  but  ever  importunate  pres- 


206  MORE   JONATHAN   PAPERS 

ence.  The  wind  blew  that  night,  too,  and 
there  was  a  low-scudding  rack,  and  a  half- 
smothered  moon.  As  we  rolled  ourselves 
up  in  our  blankets  and  rubber  sheets  and  set 
tled  down,  I  looked  out  over  the  restless 
water. 

"The  bay  seems  very  full  to-night  — 
brimming,"  I  said. 

"Not  brimming  over,  though,"  said  Jona 
than. 

"I  should  hope  not!  But  it  does  seem  to 
me  there  are  very  few  inches  between  it  and 
our  feet." 

"And  the  tide  is  still  rising,  of  course," 
said  Jonathan,  by  way  of  comfort. 

"Jonathan,  I  know  just  where  high-tide 
mark  is,  and  we're  fully  twelve  inches  above 
it." 

Silence. 

"Are  n't  we?" 

"Oh,  was  that  a  question?"  murmured 
Jonathan.  "Why,  yes,  I  think  we  are  at  least 
that." 

"Of  course,  there  are  extra  high  tides 
sometimes." 

Silence. 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  207 

"  Jonathan,  do  you  know  when  they  come?  " 

"Not  exactly." 

"Well,  I  don't  care.  I  love  it,  anyway. 
Only  it  seems  so  much  bigger  and  colder  at 
night,  the  water  does." 

At  last  I  drowsed,  waking  now  and  then  to 
raise  my  head  and  just  glance  down  at  those 
waves  —  they  certainly  sounded  as  if  they 
were  lapping  the  sand  close  by  my  ear.  No, 
there  they  were,  quite  within  bounds,  fully 
twenty  feet  away  from  my  toes.  Of  course  it 
was  all  right.  I  slept  again,  and  dreamed  that 
the  tide  rose  and  rose;  the  waves  ran  merrily 
up  the  beach,  ran  up  on  both  sides  of  us, 
closed  in  behind  us.  We  were  lying  on  a  little 
sand  island,  and  the  waves  nibbled  at  its 
edges  —  nibbled  and  nibbled  and  nibbled  — 
the  island  was  being  nibbled  up.  This  would 
never  do!  We  must  move!  And  I  woke. 
Ripple,  ripple,  swash!  ripple,  ripple,  swash! 
went  the  unconscious  waves.  As  I  raised  my 
head  I  saw  the  pale  beach  stretching  off  under 
the  moon-washed  mists  of  middle  night.  Re 
assured,  I  sank  back,  and  when  I  waked  again 
the  big  sun  was  well  above  the  rim  of  the 
waters  and  all  the  little  waves  were  dancing 


208  MORE   JONATHAN   PAPERS 

and  the  wet  curves  of  the  beach  were  gleam 
ing  in  the  new  day. 

The  water  was  not  always  restless  at  night. 
The  next  time  we  camped  we  found  a  little 
harbor  within  a  harbor,  a  crescent  curve  of 
fine  white  sand  ending  in  a  point  of  rock.  In 
one  of  its  clefts  we  made  our  fire  and  broiled 
our  plover,  ranging  them  on  spits  of  bay  so 
that  they  hung  over  the  two  edges  of  rock 
like  people  looking  down  into  a  miniature 
Grand  Canon.  There  were  nine  of  them,  fat 
and  sputtering,  and  while  they  cooked,  we 
made  toast  and  arranged  the  camp.  Then 
we  had  supper,  and  watched  the  red  coals 
smouldering  and  the  white  moonlight  filling 
the  world  with  a  radiance  that  put  out  the 
stars  and  brought  the  blue  back  to  the  sky. 
The  little  basin  of  the  bay  was  quiet  as  a  pool, 
the  air  was  full  of  stillness,  with  now  and  then 
the  hushed  flip-flip  of  a  tiny  wave  that  had 
somehow  strayed  in  from  the  tumbling  crowd 
outside. 

We  slept  well,  but  once  Jonathan  waked 
me.  "Look!"  he  whispered,  "White  heron." 

I  raised  my  head.  There,  quite  near  us  in 
the  shallow  water,  stood  a  great  pale  bird, 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  209 

motionless,  on  one  long,  slim  leg,  his  oval 
body,  long  neck,  head  and  bill  clearly  out 
lined  against  the  bright  water  beyond.  The 
mirror  of  the  water  reflected  perfectly  the 
soft  outline,  making  a  double  creature,  one 
above  and  one  below,  with  that  slim  stem  of 
leg  between. 

I  watched  him  until  my  neck  grew  tired. 
He  never  moved.  Out  beyond  him,  more  dim, 
stood  his  mate,  motionless  too.  Now  and 
then  they  called  to  each  other,  with  queer, 
harsh  talk  that  made  the  stillness  all  the 
stiller  when  it  closed  in  again. 

When  we  awoke,  they  were  gone,  but  we 
found  the  heronry  that  morning  on  one  of  the 
oak-covered  knolls  that  rise  like  islands  out  of 
the  heart  of  the  great  salt  marshes. 

All  through  the  cruise,  the  big  winds  were 
with  us  more  than  we  had  expected.  They 
gave  us,  for  the  most  part,  a  right  good  time. 
For  even  in  the  partly  protected  Sound  it  is 
possible  to  stir  up  a  sea  rough  enough  to  keep 
one  busy.  Each  wave,  as  it  came  galloping 
up,  was  an  antagonist  to  be  dealt  with.  If 
we  met  it  successfully,  it  galloped  on,  and  left 


210  MORE   JONATHAN   PAPERS 

us  none  the  worse  for  it.  If  we  did  not,  it 
meant,  perhaps,  that  its  foaming  white  mane 
brushed  our  shoulders,  or  swept  across  our 
laps,  or,  worse  still,  drowned  our  guns.  Once, 
indeed,  we  were  threatened  with  something  a 
little  more  serious.  We  were  running  down  out 
of  the  Connecticut  River,  gliding  smoothly 
over  sleek  water.  It  was  delicious  rowing,  and 
the  boat  shot  along  swiftly.  As  we  turned 
westward,  it  grew  rougher,  but  we  were  pay 
ing  no  special  heed  to  this  when  suddenly  I 
became  conscious  of  something  dark  over  my 
right  shoulder.  I  turned  my  head,  and  found 
myself  looking  up  into  the  evil  heart  of  a  dull 
green  breaker.  I  gasped,  "Look  out!"  and 
dug  my  oar.  Jonathan  glanced,  pulled,  there 
was  a  moment  of  doubt,  then  the  huge  dark 
bulk  was  shouldering  heavily  away,  off  our 
starboard  quarter.  It  was  only  the  first  of 
its  ugly  company.  Through  sheer  careless 
ness,  we  had  run,  as  it  were,  into  an  ambush 
-  one  of  the  worst  bits  of  water  on  the  Sound, 
where  tide  and  river  currents  meet  and 
wrangle.  All  around  us  were  rearing,  white- 
maned  breakers,  though  the  impression  we 
got  was  less  of  their  white  manes  than  of  their 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  211 

dark  sides  as  they  rose  over  us.  Our  problem 
was  to  meet  each  one  fairly,  and  yet  snatch 
every  moment  of  respite  to  slant  off  toward 
the  harborage  inside  the  breakwaters.  It  took 
all  our  strength  and  all  our  skill,  and  all  the 
resources  of  the  good  little  boat.  But  we 
made  it,  after  perhaps  half  an  hour  of  stiff 
work.  Then  we  rested,  breathed,  and  went 
on.  We  did  not  talk  much  about  it  until  we 
made  camp  that  night.  Then,  as  we  sat  look 
ing  out  over  the  quiet  water,  I  told  Jonathan 
about  the  shadow  over  my  shoulder. 

"It  was  like  seeing  a  ghost,"  I  said,  — 
"no  —  more  like  feeling  the  hand  of  an  en 
emy  on  your  shoulder." 

"The  Black  Douglas,"  suggested  Jonathan. 

"Yes.  Talk  about  the  scientific  attitude  — 
you  Ve  just  got  to  personify  things  when  they 
come  at  you  like  that.  That  wave  had  an  ex 
pression  —  an  ugly  one.  I  don't  wonder  the 
Northmen  felt  as  they  did  about  the  sea  and 
the  waves.  They  took  it  all  personally  —  they 
had  to!" 

"Were  you  frightened?"  asked  Jonathan. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  I  said,  almost  too 
promptly.  Then  I  meditated  —  "I  don't 


MORE   JONATHAN   PAPERS 

know  what  you'd  call  it  —  but  I  believe  I 
understand  now  what  people  mean  when  they 
talk  about  their  hearts  going  down  into  their 
boots." 

"Did  yours?" 

"  Why,  not  exactly  —  but  —  well  —  it  cer 
tainly  did  feel  suddenly  very  thick  and  heavy 
—  as  if  it  had  dropped  —  perhaps  an  inch 
or  two." 

"I  believe,"  said  Jonathan  gently,  "you 
might  almost  call  that  being  frightened." 

:<  Yes,  perhaps  you  might.  Tell  me  —  were 

you?" 

"  I  did  n't  like  it — yes,  I  was  anxious  —  and 
it  made  me  tired  to  have  been  such  a  fool  — 
the  whole  thing  was  absolutely  unnecessary, 
if  we'd  looked  up  the  charts  carefully." 

"Or  asked  a  few  questions.  But  you  know 
you  hate  to  ask  questions." 

"You  could  have  asked  them." 

"Well,  anyway,  aren't  you  glad  it  hap 
pened?" 

"Oh,  of  course;  it  was  an  experience." 

"Do  you  want  to  do  it  again?" 

"No"  -he  was  emphatic —  "not  with 
that  load." 


A  ROWBOAT  PILGRIMAGE  213 

"Neither  do  I." 

If  the  winds  sometimes  wearied  us  a  little, 
they  helped  us,  too.  We  can  never  forget  the 
evening  we  turned  into  the  Thames  River, 
making  for  the  shelter  of  a  friend's  hospitable 
roof.  We  had  battled  most  of  that  day  with 
the  diagonal  onslaughts  of  a  southeast  gale, 
bringing  with  it  the  full  swing  of  the  ocean 
swell.  It  was  easier  than  a  south  wester  would 
have  been,  but  that  was  the  best  that  could 
be  said  for  it. 

We  passed  the  last  buoy  and  turned  our 
bow  north.  And  suddenly,  the  great  waves 
that  had  all  day  kept  us  on  the  defensive  be 
came  our  strong  helpers.  They  took  us  up  and 
swung  us  forward  on  our  course  with  great 
sweeping  rushes  of  motion.  The  tide  was 
setting  in,  too,  and  with  that  and  our  oars 
we  were  going  almost  as  fast  as  the  waves 
themselves,  so  that  when  one  picked  us  up, 
it  swung  us  a  long  way  before  it  left  us.  We 
learned  to  watch  for  each  roller,  wait  till  one 
came  up  astern,  then  pull  with  all  our  might 
so  that  we  went  swooping  down  its  long  slope, 
its  crest  at  first  just  behind  our  stern,  but 
drawing  more  and  more  under  us,  until  it 


214  MORE   JONATHAN  PAPERS 

passed  beyond  our  bow  and  dropped  us  in  the 
trough  to  wait  for  the  next  giant.  It  was  like 
going  in  a  swing,  but  with  the  downward  rush 
very  long  and  swift,  and  the  upward  rise  short 
and  slow.  How  long  it  took  us  to  make  the 
two  miles  to  our  friend's  dock  we  shall  never 
know.  Probably  only  a  few  minutes.  But  it 
was  not  an  experience  in  time.  We  had  a 
sense  of  being  at  one  with  the  great  primal 
forces  of  wind  and  water,  and  at  one  with 
them,  not  in  their  moments  of  poise,  but  in 
their  moments  of  resistless  power. 

After  all,  the  only  drawback  to  the  cruise 
was  that  it  was  over  too  soon.  When,  in  the 
quiet  afternoon  light  of  the  last  day,  a  famil 
iar  headland  floated  into  view,  my  first  feel 
ing  was  one  of  joy;  for  beyond  that  headland, 
what  friendly  faces  waited  for  us  —  faces 
turned  even  now,  perhaps,  toward  the  east  for 
a  first  glimpse  of  our  little  boat.  But  hard 
after  this,  came  a  pang  of  regret  —  it  was 
over,  our  water-pilgrimage,  and  I  wanted  it 
to  go  on. 

It  was  over.  And  yet,  not  really  over  after 
all.  I  sometimes  think  that  pleasures  ought 


A  ROWBOAT   PILGRIMAGE 

to  be  valued  according  to  whether  they  are 
over  when  they  are  over,  or  not.  "You  can 
not  eat  your  cake  and  have  it  too."  True,  but 
that  is  because  it  is  cake.  There  are  other 
things  which  you  can  eat,  and  still  have.  And 
our  rowboat  cruise  is  one  of  these.  It  is  over, 
and  yet  it  is  not  over.  It  never  will  be.  I  can 
shut  my  eyes  —  indeed,  I  do  not  need  even 
to  shut  them  —  and  again  I  am  under  the 
open  sky,  I  am  afloat  in  the  sun  and  the  wind, 
with  the  waters  all  around  me.  I  see  again 
the  surf -edged  curves  of  the  beaches,  the  lines 
of  the  sand-cliffs,  the  ragged  horizon  edge, 
cut  and  jagged  by  the  waves.  I  feel  the  boat, 
I  feel  the  oars,  I  am  aware  of  the  damp,  pure 
night  air,  and  the  sounds  of  the  waves  cease 
lessly  breaking  on  the  sand. 

It  is  not  over.  Its  best  things  are  still  ours, 
and  those  things  which  were  hardly  pleasures 
then  have  become  such  now.  As  we  remember 
our  aching  muscles  and  blistered  hands,  we 
smile.  As  we  recall  times  of  intense  weariness, 
of  irritation,  of  anxiety,  we  find  ourselves 
lingering  over  them  with  enjoyment.  For 
memory  does  something  wonderful  with  ex 
perience.  It  is  a  poet,  and  life  is  its  raw 


216  MORE   JONATHAN   PAPERS 

material.  I  know  that  our  cruise  was  made  up 
of  minutes,  of  oar-strokes,  so  many  that  to 
count  them  would  be  weariness  unending.  But 
in  my  memory,  these  things  are  re-created. 
I  see  a  boundless  stretch  of  windy  or  peaceful 
waters.  I  see  the  endless  line  of  misty  coast. 
I  see  lovely  islands,  sleeping  alone,  waiting 
to  be  possessed  by  those  who  come.  And  I  see 
a  little,  little  boat,  faring  along  the  coast- 
lands,  out  to  the  islands,  over  the  waters  — 
going  on,  and  on,  and  on. 


THE  END 


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MAR    U    1933 


LD  21-50m-l,I33 


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